


The Mysteries of Generation

by cthene



Series: A Band in Hope [1]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2020-11-24 14:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthene/pseuds/cthene
Summary: “Ja, sos,” he snorts derisively, hair pouring forward as he hunches over, steadying himself on the arm of the sofa. “I guess mainlining deh primordials cosmicks lifesforce of deh univorse ams turnings me into euhhhh…” He glares at a speck of dried blood on the floor, too exhausted and embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone. “Bigs crybaby dildos whats ams feelinks sorrys for everybodies."Skwisgaar’s latent demigod nature emerges suddenly and dramatically, granting him miraculous healing and life-giving powers which he is neither physically nor emotionally equipped to handle. Hilarity ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a bright, cloudless day, with plenty of regular jackoffs milling around, and Skwisgaar is already feeling pretty great about his plan to start randomly experimenting on them. He steps out of the convenience store, popping the tab on one of those jumbo dollar iced teas, and takes a big, cold, swig of it. It’s blue raspberry or something. He’s not sure how this turned into a whole band field trip, but in a way it’s good that everyone decided to tag along. This will put to rest any doubts his bandmates might still be harboring about the authenticity of his recently-discovered godhood. Dressed head-to-toe in white, except for his dark, rockstar sunglasses, he’s determined to sell the whole thing as best as he can. A part of him recognizes his racing thoughts and impulsive, manic behavior as a red flag, but the intoxicating sense of supernatural power flowing through him is a vicious motivator. He’s too jazzed-up to even care that Toki keeps doing that annoying thing where he stands too close to Skwisgaar’s elbow, just outside his peripheral vision, so that they keep bumping into each other. 

“Scho,” says Murderface, crossing his arms. “Are you gonna wow me or what? I have yet to be wowed.” 

“Pffft—” Skwisgaar gestures with the jumbo can. “I amn’t doing dis for yous enterztainments. I ams a literal god, oukay? _ Literallies_. Not like, guy who ams does childs birthdays parties magics trick.” 

“Yeah,” Murderface sighs, “you keep schaying that. But what _ isch_ it you do now ekschactly? You _ heal _ people?” He turns to his other bandmates. “I can’t be the only one who thinkchs that’sch kinda gay.” 

“Hey—” says Nathan, “don’t look at me. Skwisgaar fixed that weird neck thing I had. I’m not gonna complain about that. Pickles, do-you-remember-that-weird-neck-thing? That I had.” 

“I doo,” Pickles nods sympathetically, nursing a forty. “I hate dat shit, man. When you’ve gaht like. A weird _ thing_. Dat you can’t get rid of.”

“Yeah, exactly!” says Nathan, growing emphatic. “So shut the fuck up, Murderface! Skwisgaar cured my chronic neck thing, by like, shooting me with a bolt of lightning. Like a fucking angel. You weren’t even there, so. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yeah,” Toki chimes in, his grip growing limp on his own forty as he attempts to point and laugh with it. He’s been drinking since 10 AM, which isn’t great, but no one’s going to say anything about it. “Shuts deh fuck up Moidaface. Maybes, if you aks nicely—” he starts cracking up at his own joke before it’s even finished. “Maybes den Skwisgaar ams woulds cures yous chronic ugliness!”

“Huehuehue,” Skwisgaar laughs. “Dat ams.” He takes a second to inhale. “Toki, dat ams was a pretty good ones.” 

Murderface kicks a rock, stewing. “Fine! You guysch laugh it up. Go for the low-hanging fruit. I don’t care. All I wanna know isch, when am I gonna schee thisch alleged lightning-thing?!” 

“Oukay,” says Skwisgaar, sobering. He surveys the convenience store parking lot in search of a suitable victim. “Dere.” He points out an extremely haggard-looking homeless woman, sitting on the grassy median between the parking lot and the road. “Shes ams definitely will haves somet’ink wrong wit’ her, I bets.” He strides towards the woman, a jittery, coked-up feeling of anticipation building in his chest, as his bandmates follow close behind. His skin is already beginning to tingle with static as he mentally rehearses how he managed to do this the last time, on Nathan. So far he’s only attempted relatively minor feats, but he’s determined to test the limits of his power. 

The woman squints up at him as he approaches her, extending her plastic cup. “You got any change? I need bus fare.” She coughs and hacks, wetly, into her sleeve.

Skiwsgaar peers down at her over the rim of his sunglasses, his hair wafting gently in the breeze, and hopes he looks sufficiently other-wordly, despite the gaggle of idiots standing behind him. “Actuallies,” he says, “I ams gots somet’ink way betters for you. Tells me, why you gots dis cough?” 

“I got fucken emphysema, man!” she rasps. 

“Oukay den. It ams your luckies day.” He glances over his shoulder at Murderface. “Stands back, dildos,” he says, before raising a hand high into the air behind him. A bolt of white lightning erupts from the cloudless sky, shooting up his outstretched arm and setting his body aglow with its terrible, crackling energy. He grits his teeth, trying to stop himself from crying out. A strange, euphoric sort of pain courses through him, his body trembling as he attempts to channel this pure, seething lifeforce into the woman in front of him. He lays the tips of his fingers against her slick, perspiring forehead, watching her eyes bulge in mixed wonder and terror as he stares directly into her very being. Exhaling sharply, he wills the energy into her lungs, before dropping his arm and taking an inelegant step backward. The whole thing takes less than thirty seconds. 

Breathing hard, Skwisgaar pounds the rest of his jumbo iced tea and crushes the can against his thigh before spiking it to the ground. His heart is racing. He feels both invincible, and like he might pass out, at the same time. He’s already itching to do it again. 

“Holy shit,” says Pickles. 

The woman gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “What the hell was that?!” she exclaims. Her voice sounds different, suddenly much clearer. She looks around, as if expecting to see TV cameras or something. “It’s a fucken miracle!” she says. 

“Ja, you know it,” says Skwisgaar, catching his breath. He tilts his sunglasses, favoring her with a flirtatious wink. 

“Alright, alright,” says Murderface. He jogs to catch up with Skwisgaar, who is already strutting off in another direction, unable to hold himself still. “Let’sch all calm our titsch.”

Skwisgaar comes to a stop at the intersection, trying to decide which way to go. He doesn’t actually have any idea where they are, because usually they just wander around until Offdensen sends someone to retrieve them. His bandmates continue to follow, looking expectant, except for Toki, who just looks drunk. 

“I’m not gonna schay your pagan-god powersch aren’t impresschive,” says Murderface, in his self-appointed-expert voice, “but usching them to help people isch juscht…” He shakes his head dolefully. “Look, I gotta be honest with you man, it’sch juscht not very metal.”

Skwisgaar turns to look at him, tossing his hair. “Ouhh, ja?” he snorts. “What ifs I woulds be likes, raising deh dead or somethink, woulds dat be metals enoughs for you?”

Murderface rubs his chin, considering this. “Yeah, I guessch scho… I mean it’sch schtill schort of like helping them, but it’sch alscho really fucked up at the schame time.” He brightens. “Yeah, that schounds pretty aweschome, akschually!”

“Yeah that, uh, that checks out,” says Nathan. “Raising the dead: Extremely metal.”

“Dere ams only one problems,” says Toki, gesturing around, his voice way too loud. “Dere ain’ts no dead peoples hangings out on deh streets corner!” They all fall silent for a moment.

“Mordorface,” says Skwisgaar cooly, “gives me yous gun.”

“Woah!” says Pickles. “Woahhh… Hey, man. Skwisgaar, dis is- Dis is startin’ to get outta hand.”

“Yeah,” says Nathan. “I gotta second what Pickles is saying here. It uh, it kinda seems like you might be going mad with power.” 

“Oh, sos now you all ams expert high priest scholars ancient mythkologies?” Skwisgaar rolls his eyes. “You gonna tell me all about deh hubrisk or sometink?”

Nathan and Pickles look at each other. “I mean dhat _ is _ like a thing, right?” asks Pickles. “Like a, fucken, theme? In a lotta? Stuff?” 

“Like a motif,” Nathan offers helpfully.

“Yeah,” says Pickles. “Like a fucken trope. In a lotta… ya know. Stuff.” 

Murderface draws his gun, handing it over to Skiwsgaar. “Schrew you guysch!” he says. “I wanna schee thisch.” 

Before the matter can be subjected to any further debate, a fat mall cop is running towards them from the department store across the street. “Hey!” he shouts, huffing and puffing as he gropes for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. “You can’t open-carry out here! Sir! You can’t—” Skiwsgaar shoots him point-blank, in the chest.

“Dooood!” Pickles yelps. “What the fuck, dood?! You just fucken killed dhat guy!”

Skiwsgaar jay-walks wordlessly towards the body, sprawled across the landscaped treelawn in front of the department store, heedless of both traffic and his bandmates’ cries. This is the real test, he thinks. If he can actually do this, he can do anything. His fingers twitch, tiny bolts of electricity arcing between them, and he tries to steady himself by tapping out a familiar series of chords against his palm. The others wait for a gap in the flow of cars before running after him, yelling curses and admonitions.

“Skwisgaar,” says Nathan, catching up with him. “This is… this is crazy, okay? I mean. You know that right?”

“What if you can’t doo it?” asks Pickles. “Who told you dhat you could raise the dead?!”

“He broughts back to life my succulents,” Toki offers, trying to be helpful. 

“Oh, fuck,” says Pickles. “Oh, fuck. Why would you fuck us like dhat, dood? What if we get in trouble?” 

Nathan grunts. “No way. We’re not in trouble. Skwisgaar and Murderface are in trouble.” 

“I didn’t schoot _ anybody!_” says Murderface.

“You gave him the gun,” says Nathan. “So technically. You’re an accessory—”

“_Quiet!_” Skwisgaar bellows at them, brandishing the gun. “Alls of you, quiet! I needs to conskentrates.” They freeze, gawking at him in fear. He collects himself, handing the gun back to Murderface. “Oukay,” he says calmly. Everyone sags with relief. “Now. You all ams my witness. Allows me to conskentrates, and I brings dis dead guy backs to life.” He steps over the body, standing just behind the man’s head to survey the damage. The front of the man’s pale blue mall cop shirt is saturated with blood. Skwisgaar crouches over him, reaching down to check his neck for a pulse, but somehow he already knows, as if by instinct, that the man is dead. He squints up at his bandmates, trying to _ feel _ them in the same way, tasting the difference. His eyes meet Toki’s, and Toki looks furtively away.

“Heres we go...” says Skwisgaar, serene. He takes a deep breath, summoning the lightning, but it’s almost too much for him this time. He crumples forward, his hair sweeping momentarily across the dead man’s face and chest, flecking the ends of it with blood. The energy churns hotly inside of him, the delirious, orgiastic, teeming essence of life itself, and he grips the man’s skull with both hands, trying to pour all of this into it. Mushrooms, and crabgrass, and dandelions explode from the lawn beneath them, and the man’s convulsing body begins to rise several centimeters into the air. Skwisgaar gasps, pressing his thumbs against the dead man’s temples. Blood spurts from the man’s chest in a small geyser, followed by the remains of the bullet, which are pushed from his heart with a wet sucking sound, before rolling away into the grass. “Come on, you stupids fat dildos,” Skwisgaar manages. “I commands you to lives!” The man coughs, yellow bile spurting from his mouth, and Skwisgaar drops him to the ground. 

“What?!” the man yells. He scrambles to his feet, whirling around to gape at Skwisgaar, who remains kneeling and panting in the grass, hair draped over much of his face. “You!” says the man. “You shot me!”

“Ja,” Skwisgaar breaths, trying to get his body back under control. 

The man claws hysterically at his chest, finding copious blood but no wound. “How—?! What is this?!”

Skiwsgaar climbs shakily to his feet, tossing his hair out of the way. “I kills you, so I coulds brings you backs to lifes,” he says. “It was… hows you calls it? An ezkperiments.” The man looks around frantically. His dark blue pants are soaked with urine. “You sees...” Skwisgaar raises himself up to his full height, peering icily down at the man, a terrible thrill of pleasure slashing through him. “I ams a god.” 

The man bolts without another word, clumsily scrambling away as fast as his legs will carry him. 

“Probablies also cures yous coronaries hearts disease!” Skwisgaar hollers after him. “Sos. You ams welcomes for dat. Idiot.” He glances down at himself. The all-white outfit might not have been the best call. He’s covered in grass stains and blood. A wave of dizziness hits him, and he careens over backward, crashing into Toki who is standing— where else? —_way _ too close to his elbow. 

“You don’t looks so good, Skwisgaar,” says Toki, catching him by the underarms and lifting him back up onto his feet. “And you acks like a crazy porson,” he giggles. Toki smells like convenience store malt liquor and day-old sweat, but something about his nearness is weirdly magnetic; His life-energy has a certain darkly sonorous flavor to it. Skwisgaar frowns at this, yanking himself away.

“Oukay, dat one actuallies… takes a lots out of me,” he concedes. He retracts his sunglasses to the top of his head, pressing his eyes against his inner arm with a quiet groan. “You knows how when you hads takens too many uppers sometimes you gotta takes some downers for to evens youself out?” he asks, rhetorically. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the sun. The lightning has left his insides feeling raw and hyper-sensitized, like a new layer of skin. “I tink posskiblies I shoots up too much eugh… _ lifes _ I guess. And now I needs, like, a hits of death, for to evens me out. Hey, Toki,” he says, “gives me one of Mordorface’s cigarette.” 

“What the hell!” says Murderface, as Toki obliges, taking the pack from his back pocket. “When did you even have a chansche to schteal thosche?! Goddamnit! I told you guysch to schtop doing that!” He kicks Toki in the shin, who immediately retaliates by punching him, hard, in the arm. 

Skwisgaar inclines his head, accepting the cigarette from Toki with his mouth. Toki produces a lighter, but Skwisgaar turns away. “Hangs on,” he breathes. He pinches the end of the cigarette between his fingers, lighting it with a pop of white sparks. “I can’t believe dat acktualies warks,” he chuckles before taking a drag. 

“Yeah, oukay, we gets it alreadies,” Toki snaps. “Show-offs.” He punches Skwisgaar, who cringes in pain, feeling weakened to begin with. “Why you does dat?” Skwisgaar asks, rubbing his arm. 

“Becausk,” Toki whines, “you always gots to bes a show-offs!”

“Toki,” Skwisgaar says wearily, “you ams drunks.”

Before this tiff has a chance to escalate further- as Skwisgaar can’t deny they are wont to do -the Dethlimo pulls up to the curb. “Shit,” Pickles mutters, as the door opens and Offdensen steps out. “Before you say anything,” he points at their manager with his non-drinking hand, “I am naht dah one in trouble here, okay? Let’s get daht outta dah way immediately.” 

“Relax, Pickles,” says Offdensen. “No one is in trouble.” 

Pickles looks faintly scandalized. “Naht even Skwisgaar?” 

“I’m _ concerned _ about Skwisgaar,” says Offdensen. “But it seems like I got here in time to prevent him from doing any serious damage.” 

Nathan grunts. “I mean. Not to be a narc but. He fucken killed a guy. Like, shot him in the fucken heart. And he’s covered in like… Blood. Evidence. Blevidence.”

“I can see that,” says Offdensen. “But from what I understand, it could have been a lot worse. Skwisgaar,” he asks, “you wanna join this conversation? It’s, ah. It’s about _ you_.” 

Skwisgaar stands on the treelawn a few meters away, smoking luxuriously and gazing impassively into the middle-distance. He resents Offdensen’s ability to make him feel self-conscious about his choices. It suddenly occurs to him that he was sort of expecting the final demonstration of his full power to rid him of these kinds of doubts, but even the knowledge that he can _ literally raise the dead _is apparently not enough to quell his driving fear of falling anywhere short of absolute personal perfection. “Ja,” he says, trying to sound cool and bored. “What you wants?”

“I’m being told you… murdered someone?” says Offdensen, approaching him. “Is that true?”

Skwisgaar turns to look at him. “Don’ts get too exskited,” he grins. “I alreadies broughts him back.” He extends an arm and makes a shooing gesture with his fingers. “And he ams runned away, like deh little woodlands creature.” 

Offdensen’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, behind his glasses. “You brought a dead man back to life?” He glances back at the rest of the band. “And you all saw this?”

“Yeah,” says Nathan. “It was brutal.” 

Murderface nods. “I wasch schkeptical at first, but I have to admit it wasch pretty schpectacular. The guy pissched himschelf and everything.”

“That’s extraordinary,” says Offdensen, rubbing his chin. “Skwisgaar…” he pauses. “How do you _ feel _right now?”

Skwisgaar narrows his eyes, blowing a couple of smoke rings. “I ams fine.” 

“You look… somewhat less than fine.”

He pivots to face Offdensen fully. “I ams a god, sos. I ams great, acktuallies.” 

“Well Skwisgaar, you were, ah, _ begotten _by a human woman.”

“Euugh.” he curls his lip in distaste. “Don’ts reminds me.”

Offdensen pauses expectantly, as if waiting for Skwisgaar to put two-and-two together before spelling it out. “That means you have a mortal human body,” he says. “And you’ve been using it to channel the pure comic lifeforce that radiates from the ancient center of the universe.”

“Ja, it ams, eugh… real cool.”

“Well it’s also extremely irresponsible and dangerous. Not to mention a potential P.R. disaster if you really fuck something up. And I mean something a lot worse than shooting a man in cold blood in broad daylight.” 

“Pffft—” Skwisgaar scoffs. “Oukay.” 

Nathan mutters something under his breath.

“What’s ams dat?” Skwisgaar demands.

“I said: maybe he’s right. Not to be uhh… buzzkill or anything but, yeah, you _ have _ been acting like kind of a psycho.” 

“Daht’s what _ I’m _ saying!” Pickles yelps. 

“Ja Skwisgaar, you ams is total psycho,” Toki joins in, his eyes crinkling with obvious schadenfreude. Murderface sucks his teeth, looking away. 

“Pat’eticks,” says Skwisgaar. “You alls ganks up on mes just for to curries favors wit—” He stops, suddenly tasting iron. 

“Ahh… Skwisgaar,” says Offdensen, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “You’re, ahh, nose is bleeding. Profusely.” 

Skwisgaar looks down, further splattering his white shirt with blood in the process. “Heugh,” he huffs, accepting the handkerchief and pressing it to his face. “Fucks.” He sways on his feet, little black pixels suddenly scattering across his field of vision. 

“As I was _ saying_,” Offdensen continues, sounding irritated, “you are probably placing your body under enormous strain by, ahh, casually using it as a conduit for primordial cosmic forces that have existed since before time began. Now, I’ve consulted with an expert panel of physicians and pagan mystics, and they’ve reliably informed me that the essence of some sort of ancient Norse fertility god, which until now lay dormant within you, has recently been activated.”

“Ja, I knows,” says Skwisgaar from beneath the handkerchief, tilting his head back to stem the flow of blood. “I ams hads tolds you dis alreadies. But you didn’ts believes me.” 

“Well, I’ve looked into it,” says Offdensen. “And now I’m convinced that it could be a serious problem.”

“Look, whatevers,” says Skwisgaar, “I can bes more carefuls wit it, okay?”

“I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of this situation,” says Offdensen. His gaze softens slightly, with what anyone who knows him well would recognize as real concern. Skwisgaar swallows, suddenly nervous. That look usually signals some sort of imminent threat to the band. “We don’t know what’s happening to you,” says Offdensen. “We know its changing you, but we don’t know exactly how, or to what extent. We don’t even know if you’re going to survive the process.” 

“Ja, wells,” Skwisgaar peers down at him through his eyelashes. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself and smother a pang of fear. “If I eugh, you knows, hamburgers-times…” He shrugs; Cool, dismissive, faintly amused. Definitely not afraid. “Probablies den I ams just bringinks myself backs to lifes. Just like, hue,” he chuckles, “we all thoughts suckinks yous owns dicks was ams unpossibles, but den Pickle ackstualies did it, sos…”

“What!?” Nathan shouts, whirling around. “Is that true, Pickles?!”

Pickles throws up his hands. “Dood!” he cries, pleading with Skwisgaar. “I told you daht in confidence!” 

“Alright—” says Offdensen, trying to get them back on topic.

“Hold the phone!” Murderface cuts him off. “Put that other schit on pausch! Thisch changesh _ everything!_” He steeples his fingers, taking a meditative breath through his nose. “Picklesch, I need _ detailsch—_”

“Hey!” Offdensen raises his voice. “This is important! One of your bandmates could be in serious jeopardy!” He lifts his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We could _ all _ be in serious jeopardy.” 

Skwisgaar shudders, a thrill of lightheadedness washing over him. He vaguely hears the others talking, but it’s becoming more and more difficult to pay attention. He can feel his body radiating energy, that now-familiar static hum pressing at the inside of his skin. He casts his gaze blearily down at ground to find a blanket of clover and dandelion flowers rising from the treenlawn beneath him, and looks up to find everyone else staring at him in fear. “I swears, I amn’t doings dat on purpose,” he groans. 

“Okay,” says Offdensen, softening again now that everyone seems sufficiently cowed. “Skwisgaar: Here’s what’s going to happen now. We’re all going to get in the car, we’re going to take you back home, and then we’re going to have you examined by a team of specialists so we can figure out what the hell is happening to you. Does that sound like a plan?”

“Ja, okei,” Skwisgaar breathes, closing his eyes. As soon as his heart rate feels like it’s returning to normal, he lifts the handkerchief from his mouth to finish his cigarette. He takes a long, contemplative drag, watching out of the corner of his vision as the rest of the band piles into the Dethlimo ahead of him. “Let’s go,” he says, flicking the spent butt onto the ground.

“Alright, well.” Offdensen rolls his eyes, watching him through the open car window. “You know, you don’t _ have _ to litter.”

“Why nots?” Skwisgaar gestures languidly at the riot of yellow flowers blooming at his feet. “I ams hads already cancels it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd be writing a fucking Metalocalpyse fanfic in the Year of Our Lord 2019, but here we are.


	2. Chapter 2

Three dildos in white lab coats are standing at the front of the room, whispering anxiously amongst themselves as they struggle with the controls on a large wall monitor. 

“It ams screams-ackstivated,” Skwisgaar offers helpfully. The men stop whispering and turn their heads. “You haves to screams into it forst, in order for to torns it on. What? Don’t looks at me like dat. It weren’ts my idea.” He’s reclining on the sofa in front of them, plucking absently at the Explorer. Abigail sits at the other end of the sofa, tapping away at her phone. Skwisgaar considers objecting to her presence, but says nothing, deciding he doesn’t really care. After an afternoon of being stripped, and weighed, and measured, and swabbed, and jabbed with needles, and scanned inside of various malevolently humming machines, all he really wants to do is practice his scales until he falls asleep; But Offdensen made him promise he’d sit through this dildos presentation _and_ actually pay attention, so he’s trying to be on his best behavior. Partly because Offdensen is standing right there, a few feet to the left of the sofa, and partly because, well, now that he’s come down from the high of this morning’s crazy power-trip, his whole body feels weird, his emotions feel way too close to the surface, and he’s actually kind of afraid. It’s not that he’s in terrible pain, exactly; But everything about him seems tender with a kind of healing soreness, as if all his cells are rapidly being turned over and replaced.

“Here you go,” says Abigail. She holds her phone high in the air, before hitting play on an audio clip of Nathan screaming. Skwisgaar gives a her quizzical look. “What? Saves my voice,” she says, before returning to whatever she was engrossed by on her phone before.

“Alright,” says one of the three men, stepping forward once they finally manage to get the monitor working. A diagram of what looks like maybe outer space, but as far as Skwisgaar knows could just as easily be amoebas or something, appears on the screen. The scientist clears his throat, holding a stack of papers in front of him, and begins to read: “The Primordial Cosmic Lifeforce- referred to as PCL, for the remainder of this presentation—”

Skwisgaar cuts him off immediately, “Eugh… is dere any way you could maybe gives me deh Clifks-Notes vorsion of dis? Because I tells you right now, I amn’t goink to makes it t’rough all dose pages you got dere.” 

“Oh, well,” says the scientist, looking nervously up from his script. “I suppose so.”

“Oukay, great. Shoots. I stops interrupting now, I promiske.” 

He clears his throat a second time. “So basically,” he shuffles the papers around, “Mr. Skiwgelf, because you don’t have a father, at least in the… conventional sense, you’re actually a genetic copy of your mother, with the obvious exception of your sex. Apparently, you have the y-chromosome of…” he frowns down at his notes, “_an ancient Norse fertility god_.” Whatever that means. So, you’re human, but only sort of. The physiological effects of this are—” he shuffles the papers a little more frantically before giving up on them entirely, “—extensive, and complicated. And the exact mechanisms involved are somewhat beyond the grasp of current biological science.” 

Skwisgaar stops plucking at the Explorer just long enough to look suitably irritated. “Den whats you got on all dose papers, hah? Does it say ‘we amn’t knows shit’ over and over agains?” Offdensen shoots him a sideways glance. “Sorry,” says Skwisgaar, “I stops interrupting.” 

A second scientist— older, more balding —steps forward, and points up at the monitor, where two illustrations of the human body are displayed side by side, the various parts intricately labeled. “So on the left is a model of an average man of your general description, and on the right is what we found when we examined _ you_.” He fiddles with the remote, flipping through the slides, which all feature various charts and anatomical diagrams. “As you can see, the hemoglobin levels… and the rate of autophagy…” He folds his hands. “Well, the point is, they’re different. And these differences are what allow you to tap into the Primordial Cosmic Lifeforce.” 

Newly confident, the first scientist takes over again. “The bad news is, the human body is not capable of processing raw PCL until it’s been converted into CTL— that’s Common Terrestrial Lifeforce —without being basically ripped apart.” Skwisgaar’s fret hand freezes, his mouth opening mutely. ‘Ripped apart’ sounds bad. Why did he agree to sit through this, again? The scientist continues, cheerfully: “But the good news is, _ your _ body seems to be adapting to the sudden introduction of PCL by essentially turning you into a living PCL-CTL converter. The bad news is, this transformation has produced a number of potentially dangerous side effects; But the good news is, they should be relatively simple to manage.” He smiles, evidently satisfied by the quality of his own explanation.

“Oukay…” Skwisgaar squints up at him. “Ams I alloweds to aks a question now?” 

Offdensen sighs. “Yes.” 

Skwisgaar turns open his palms, frustrated. “Ams I dyings or nots?! I thought dat ams whats you was goink to tells me!” 

“No,” says Offdensen. “Not if you follow the, ah, doctors’ recommendations.” 

The less-bald one walks around the table, approaches the sofa, and hands Skwisgaar a sheet of paper with a list of bullet points printed on it. Skwisgaar takes it, glancing at it suspiciously before folding it up and slipping it into his pocket. 

“Oh,” says the scientist. “I was about to… go over those with you.”

“Go ahead.” Skwisgaar resumes compulsively fretting his guitar. “I’m listenink.”

“Well,” says the scientist, “aren’t you going to… read it?” 

“I ams not what you calls eugh… visuals lorner.” 

“Okay, well,” he sighs, “the most immediate pressing concern is your energy requirement. You’ve lost about three kilograms in the past forty-eight hours alone, because your altered physiological processes burn an _ astronomical _ number of calories. More than you could reasonably be expected to absorb from food. To help with this problem, we’ve created a complete nutritional supplement.” He turns back to the table, retrieving what looks like an unlabeled gallon canister of laundry detergent, and unscrews the cap, carefully measuring its thick, bright-pink contents into a clear plastic cup. “We recommend drinking four, twenty-ounce servings a day, but the more you can stomach the better. Oh, and it does need to be refrigerated.” He offers the cup to Skwisgaar, who accepts it with a raised eyebrow. “The bad news is, if you don’t drink it, you might rapidly starve to death; But the good news is, it’s strawberry.”

Skwisgaar takes a cautious sip, determined to hate it out of spite, but it actually tastes fine. As soon as it hits his stomach, he suddenly realizes that the shaky, light-headed feeling he’s been experiencing all day is probably hunger, and feels kind of stupid for failing to notice this. He downs the rest of it, feeling slightly better almost immediately. “Oukay,” he says. “Drinks dis pink shit. I t’inks I can handle dat.” 

“Good,” says the scientist, pulling what he evidently thinks is an encouraging face. “Now, your body is constantly emitting a certain low level of CTL, which is harmlessly absorbed by the living organisms around you. But you’ve also demonstrated the alarming ability to massively accelerate this process at will, producing huge quantities of CTL in mere seconds. We don’t recommend doing this, both because it’s energy-intensive and places massive stress on your system, _ and _ because tampering with the fundamental cosmic forces could have any number of dangerous and unpredictable effects on the world around you.” 

Skwisgaar strums thoughtfully. “Oukay,” he says, “but I can’t just _ nots _ uses it. My fathers ams _ literallies _ some kinds of Vikings god, ja?” He tilts his chin slightly, giving what he figures is a solemn, poetic sort of look. “What ifs it ams like… my porpose.” 

The scientist shrugs, looking a bit helpless. “Mr. Offdensen said you’d say something like that.” 

Offdensen takes a few steps forward and turns to face the sofa. “Skwisgaar,” he says wearily, “I think I know you pretty well, and I recognize the virtual impossibility of convincing you not to use your powers at all. But I am asking you, sincerely, urgently, to be careful. You have personal, conscious influence over one of the fundamental forces of the universe. It is very important for you to take this seriously, as the enormous responsibility that it is. And because your powers are triggered by your thoughts and emotions, it is very important for you to remain calm, sober, and in control of your faculties at all times.” 

Skwisgaar sits up straighter, hands in his lap. “I ams always calm,” he says, vaguely affronted. 

“Skwisgaar,” says Offdensen, “you’re aloof and callous. That’s not the same thing. You can actually be, ah, pretty high-strung.”

“I am high strings? What ams dat supposed to means?”

“It’s an expression.” Abigail interjects, suddenly looking up from her phone. “It means you have a lot of anxiety.” She stows the phone in her purse, giving Skiwsgaar her undivided attention for the first time. “And you don’t really talk about it with anyone. And you think that’s the same thing as being calm.” Skwisgaar opens his mouth to offer a retort, but he can’t really think of anything. _Why_ _is_ _Abigail_ _even_ _here?_ he wonders, once again. She gives him a look which is somehow both penetrating and forgiving. He doesn’t like it at all. 

The first scientist returns to his list of bullet points: “In order to help you maintain a clear mental state, and prevent your abilities from manifesting unintentionally or from causing you unnecessary harm, we recommend that you minimize sources of stress, get at least eight hours of sleep a night, and avoid drugs and alcohol.”

Skwisgaar narrows his eyes incredulously. “You all knows I ams deh lead guitarist in a _death_ _metal band_, ja? Sorry but, dat amn’t goinks to happens.”

“Yes, Mr. Skwigelf,” the scientist pleads with him, “I know, but— It’s just that, using substances which induce an altered state of consciousness—”

“Ams practicallies a part of my job descriptions!” 

“What if,” says Abigail, making a kind of rolling speculative gesture with her hand, “they told you that taking really good care of yourself would let you play the guitar faster?”

Skwisgaar’s heart skips. “What… dids you just says... to me...?” he asks, slowly turning to fix his eyes on hers. “What deh hell you knows about any of dis?” he hisses. 

“Well,” she shrugs, “I read the report.” She indicates the stack of papers on the table. “I mean, okay,” she rolls her eyes, “I _ looked _at the report—” 

“Don’t fucks wit’ me about dis Abigail!” he yells, jabbing his finger in her face. “If dere ams one thing, in dis entire stupid bullshits warld dat I will never fucks around about, it ams deh guitar.” He lowers his voice, feeling murderous: “I t’ink you knows dat.”

The third scientist, much younger than the other two, steps forward, flipping through the papers until he finds the page he’s looking for. “She’s right, you know,” he says, scanning it. “Theoretically, you probably _ could _learn to play the guitar faster.” 

Skwisgaar drops his hand, retreating from Abigail’s end of the sofa. He can feel himself trembling. He closes his eyes, trying to regulate his heart rate, and grips the Explorer by the neck as hard as he can, so that the steel strings dig painfully into his palm. It’s several seconds before he can even bring himself to speak again, and when he does, his throat is constricted by the threat of tears. “How much fasters?” he asks, softly, looking at the floor.

“Well, who knows, right?” says Abigail, crossing her arms. “We’re talking about transcending the limits of human physiology, here. But if you don’t listen to the doctors’ advice, you’ll never find out, will you?” 

“What,” Skwisgaar asks, without looking up, “do I haves to do?” 

The third scientist makes a confused _ hnmm_ing sound, uncomfortable with what— to an ignorant jackoff like him —must seem like a baffling display of emotion. He can’t possibly understand the significance of what he has just said. “I mean,” he resumes, “something like plaything the guitar is largely a matter of muscle memory and neural architecture. In order to keep getting better at it, you need to keep making more, and stronger, and faster connections in all the tiny nerves, and muscles, and synapses responsible for coordinating a series of highly controlled, complex movements. Your rather unique physiology gives you an enormous advantage in this area, because your body wants to be in a state of constant autophagy— constantly regenerating itself, constantly adapting. If you get enough rest, and enough calories, and maintain excellent health, under the most optimal conditions, you could conceivably train yourself to perform at superhuman levels in pretty much any complex physical skill. So, if you kept your body in excellent condition, and all you did was practice the guitar all-day, every-day,” he says this like he thinks it’s a _ crazy _ thing that Skwisgaar _ isn’t _going to do, “your guitar-playing potential would be… I don’t know, theoretically unlimited.” 

Skwisgaar can’t move. The words ‘unlimited guitar-playing potential’ are so overwhelming, so intoxicating, that for a moment he thinks he might actually die, right there, on the spot. 

“You okay there, buddy?” Abigail asks, waving a hand in front of his face. 

“I needs to be alone,” he says. He stands up, Explorer in hand, and walks out of the room, without looking anyone in the eye. Outside, in the corridor, he stares unseeingly out the window, listening for the distant howling of the yard wolves in order to help ground himself. He feels unmoored. 

Nothing else he’s ever experienced can even begin to compare with the euphoria he felt when he was first learning to play the guitar. Practicing and improving his skills became his entire life; but of course, as in all things, there came a point of diminishing returns. For quite a while now, he had been forced to accept the possibility that he had simply reached his peak, that no one could play any faster or cleaner, that there were no more worlds to conquer. Practicing had become compulsive, a form of self-soothing, no longer the source of surprise, and discovery, and delirious joy it had once been. The idea of somehow transcending these limits, of creating music no mere mortal could create, is instantly mesmerizing to him.

The door is still slightly open, and he can hear them talking about him inside the room. “Abigail,” Offdensen is whispering, “that was brilliant back there. I don’t want to be too sanguine about this, but I think after what you said, there’s at least a chance he might actually take this seriously.”

Much as he resents being talked about behind his back like an unruly child, Skwisgaar can’t help but be just as impressed. Abigail managed to put Offdensen’s plea in terms she knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore: A challenge.

Skwisgaar is nihilistic, and selfish, and contemptuous of people in general, and he knows this, and he doesn’t feel particularly sorry about any of it. His patience for speeches about the good of the world, and the plight of regular jackoffs is extremely limited. But one thing he does understand, viscerally, is the relentless pursuit of perfection. 

He flexes his hands, turning this thought over and over again in his mind. She has successfully gotten to him, he thinks, and there’s nothing he can do about it, because she’s right: His body is an almost unimaginably rare and powerful instrument. He cannot fail to exercise absolute discipline and control over it. He cannot fail to develop its full potential. 

He wanders down the hallway in the general direction of his bedroom, rolling his shoulders and sighing. This almost-pleasant allover soreness is going to be his new normal, he realizes, the result of constant cellular regeneration. Constantly being torn apart and constantly healing, always raw, and perfect, and new. He wouldn’t mind the physical sensation of it, except for the fact that it also seems to be affecting his emotions; He is more impulsive, more anxious, more passionate, and worse at concealing it. Hardly conducive to the life of the stoic sage which he must lead if he’s going to achieve true, godlike excellence. But then, Skwisgaar thinks, without the challenge, there would be no reward. 

Somewhere a long ways down the vaulted corridor and up a flight of granite steps, he’s surprised by a glass bottle missing his head by a few degrees and shattering against the wall. Looking for the source of it, he finds the door to Toki’s bedroom open, a thick stench of alcohol issuing from within. He stops, warring with himself. It’s not his problem. He should go on to his own room and get some rest, after everything he’s been through today. But the pang of concern he’d usually ignore is so much sharper in this tender state. “Eughh…” he groans, angry with himself for failing at this challenge already. At least there’s always tomorrow, he thinks.

“Toki…?” he asks, cautiously approaching the doorway. “Ams you… doing alrights?” He waits outside in the hallway for a moment, taking a few steps forward when he gets no response. 

Toki is sprawled across the bed, empty bottles and the refuse from his various arts and crafts projects littering the floor. “Whats deh hell you wants?” he says, drunkenly hauling himself up into a seated position.

“Not’ing,” says Skwisgaar. He glances back into the hallway. “You looks fine. Maybe I should just leaves.”

“I hates you!” Toki yells, without warning. He takes a swig from what appears to be a bottle of pineapple-flavored vodka. “I hates you sos—” he hiccups. “Sos fucking much, Skwisgaar. I hates you more den anyt’ing!” 

Skwisgaar stares at him, startled. That can’t actually have wounded him, can it? That can’t be what this sudden vacant feeling in his chest is about. Hasn’t he heard those exact words a thousand times before? Dazed and troubled, he pulls the door closed behind him, not wanting anyone else to overhear this. 

“Tell me: What gots you all warked up dis time?” he asks. “I hasn’t done shit to you lately, Toki. Don’t you t’inks maybe you ams being a bit unreasonables?” 

Toki’s eyes are wide and crazed, his shoulders heaving as he breathes hard, through his nose. “You don’t desorves dis,” he says. 

Skwisgaar takes a step towards him, weirdly mesmerized. Something about Toki’s presence is frustrating his senses, some deep, dark, subaudible vibration, that he finds himself straining to pick up. “What is you talkink about?” he asks.

“You don’t desorves to be born dis way,” says Toki. “You don’t desorves to have special powers. You ams a huge selfish assholes. Dat ams why I hates you.” He sniffs, taking another gulp of vodka. “But everybody else love you, because you ams so greats. All you brings to deh woild ams greats musics, ands orgasms, ands porfect healthy babies. You don’t even hasta try to be a good porson! You just exists and good things comes out of you! And you makes fun of _ me _ because I ams deh one who ams actuallies _ nice! _ I ams deh one whos wants to _ helps peoples!_”

Skwisgaar takes another step closer. The emptiness in his chest is growing worse. Toki’s words are causing him pain, and doesn’t know how to stop it. “Toki,” he says, “when has you actuallies helped anyone?” He gestures at the row of potted succulents on top of the bookcase. “You can’t even keeps dese stupids plants alives!”

Toki stills, a distant, haunted look in his pale eyes. The bottle rolls from his slack hand, falling open and half-full to the floor and suffusing the air with its sticky, pineapple scent. “I knows,” he says softly. He bursts into tears. “It amn’t fair!” he sobs. His body is shaking. 

“Toki...” says Skwisgaar, “don’t do dat. Stops cryink.”

“Why?!” Toki snaps.

“I… I don’t like it. It ams umbarassing.”

“Fucks you, Skwisgaar,” he says. “I does whatever I wants! Yous deh one in my rooms!”

Skwisgaar swallows, at a loss. He doesn’t want to see this, but he can’t bring himself to just turn around and leave either. He feels like he needs to… fix it. “Oukay, listens,” he begins, “I ams only gonna says dis once, and if you tells anyone, I will haves to denies it.” 

Toki looks up at him, his face glistening with snot and tears. His breathing slows. He looks expectant, almost disbelieving. 

“I ams sorries for beings a dick to you,” says Skwisgaar. “I ams sorries I makes you feels like shit. I ams sorries for saying so many mean t’ings about your guitar playink. But I wants you to know dat I yells at you to prakstice all deh times because I wants to sees you succeed.”

“No you don’t,” Toki hisses. “You wants to keeps me down sos you cans always be deh greatest.”

Skwisgaar sighs, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand. “Toki…” he says. “Maybe it ams diffickults for you to believes dis at dis point but— I really do.” He sets the Explorer down against the wall, giving it a wistful glance before turning away and approaching the bed. “Remembers when I forst chose you to be in Dethklok?” he asks.

“Ja,” says Toki softly. He wipes at his eyes. “I thoughts I was deh luckiest porson in deh whole woild back den. I thoughts at forst dat we was gonna be best friends. But den you hads to ruins it by being such a dick to me.” 

“You seemed like practickallies a little kid,” Skwisgaar continues. “But you sorprised me. You gaves me a real challenge.” He tilts his head thoughtfully, his hair swishing to one side. “You may not even knows dis, but dere was dozens of others who auditions. And you was deh only one dat really sorprised me.”

“I guess… I didn’t knows dat.”

“I would never have chosen you if I didn’t believe you was capables. I always wanted to sees you be greats. I still do,” he says, to himself, as much as to Toki. He looks at his boots. “But I ams also, eugh… high strings, apparentlies. And I wants to always be deh greatest. So I t’ink maybes deh truth ams dat I wants both of dhose t’ings at deh same times. And dat makes me… forstrated. And sos I takes it out on you. I ams sorries for dat.”

Toki looks down at his hands, quiet for a moment. “Well I don’t forgives you!” he says finally.

It hurts. Skwisgaar closes his eyes, wondering how he’s ever going to live like this. He’s so raw inside, he can’t function normally. Fine then, he’s about to say. I don’t care what you think. But it’s not true. Which for some reason matters, all of a sudden. He wants Toki to admire him again. He needs this pain to go away, so he can think straight again. “Well,” he asks, “what does I hasta do to gets you to forgives me den?”

“What?” Toki blinks up at him, mystified. He searches Skwisgaar’s face, as if he doesn’t quite recognize him. “You _ really _ wants me to… Why do you even care so much what I t’inks all deh suddens?” He sways slightly, whether from the vodka or from sheer astonishment. Skwisgaar is afraid to even answer this, lest he reveal too much. Toki’s mouth opens slightly, a kind of childlike wonder dawning on his face, undercut, perhaps, when his eyes betray a certain dark thrill. “You hasta be nice to me,” he says breathlessly. “You hasta promiske to be nice to me from now on, and only den I forgives you. And! And you gotsta do something special for me, to makes up for all deh times you ams been such a dick befores!”

“Oukay,” Skwisgaar says softly, determined to rid himself of this awful empty feeling. Remembering all the many plants, and pets, and people Toki has lost over the years, he waits, in mixed anticipation and dread, to hear what the request will be. 

“Would you fixes my Types 2 Diabetes sos I can eats real sugars again?” Toki blurts out.

“Oh.” Skwisgaar blinks, stifling a laugh. “Ja, I guess sos.” 

“Wowee!” says Toki, ecstatic, mopping his tears away with the hem of his shirt. “I’m gonna eat a whole bag of candy corns! Deh ones whats ams shaped like little pompkins!”

Skwisgaar sits down next to him on the edge of the mattress. He’s not sure he’d be able to stay on his feet at this point if he tried to do it standing. “Alrights,” he says, readying himself. “You better appreshkiates dis,” he adds, “because I reallies amn’t supposed to does it.” 

He takes a deep breath, raising his arm out to the side, away from the bed. Something shatters in the distance, and a split second later the lightning passes through the wall of Toki’s room and slams into Skwisgaar’s body, doubling him over in pain. The energy boils and pops within him, viscous and glowing like molten glass. 

Toki freezes, gaping at him, and when their eyes meet, Skwisgaar feels something inside of himself rupture. It’s as if every fleeting moment of fondness for Toki he has ever tried to bury is welling up again at the same time, like a pool of magma under the ground, and threatening to superheat his heart into a cloud of bloody vapor. Hot tears are suddenly streaming down his face as he thinks of all the pain and suffering in Toki’s life, and his own part in it, and he is overcome by the need to somehow _ fix everything_. He pulls Toki into his arms, seizing fistfuls of his hair, and pours the lifeforce into him, willing everything that might be broken about him healed. He knows, even as he’s doing this that he’s giving too much, but he can’t stop himself; The seething light within him has taken on its own momentum. Toki’s arms are wrapped around him, eagerly returning his embrace, and it’s just _ so much_, it feels _ so—_

Skwisgaar blacks out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just hate it when you start writing a dumb fanfic on a whim and the chapter count starts creeping higher?


	3. Chapter 3

There are distant voices and whooshing noises. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. Skwisgaar presses at his throbbing temples, blinking the static from his eyes. He’s lying on his back, his feet dangling over the edge of whatever surface he’s on. The voices are getting closer. It feels like something behind his ribs might have come loose, and his nose and mouth are full of blood.

He’s been laid out on one of the sofas in the rec room, he determines. He tries to sit up, clutching his right side. Something’s _ definitely _ loose in there. Warm, watery fluid is leaking from both his ears and running in rivulets down his neck. His head swims at the change in elevation and he pauses, half-seated, taking a few seconds to let it clear. 

“Skwisgaar!” Toki rushes over to help him, as the rest of the band looks on from the hot tub, amused. “You wakes up! Ams you okay? Ohnoes— Ohfucks—” 

“Fucks you,” Skwisgaar groans, batting Toki’s hands away and hauling himself upright. “You mades me ruptures my eardrums. Godsdamnit.” He gestures angrily towards the hutch full of hot tub supplies. “Brings me one of dhose towels, idiot.” 

Toki fetches the towel, handing it to Skwisgaar with a look of panic. “I’m sorry—” he stammers. “I fucks up— I didn’t knows dis would happen—”

Skwisgaar just glares at him, mopping up the fluid before pressing the towel to his right ear and tilting his head to let it drain. “You gotsta talks slower and louder,” he says. “Everyt’ing sounds muffled.” 

“Holy schit,” Murderface exclaims from the hot tub, beer in hand. “Are you gonna go deaf now? Like Beethoven? That’sch scho brutal.”

“No,” says Skwisgaar. He closes his eyes for a few seconds. His head is killing him. “Dis haves happens to me before, when I was a kids. Deh ear drums grows back. It just horts like a bitch.” He polishes his teeth with the tip of his tongue, eyeing Murderface’s beer. Alcohol is a bad idea, but he needs something to wash the taste of blood out of his mouth. “Hey you,” he calls to a klokateer, standing frozen at attention along the back wall. “Gos and gets me some of dat pink shit!” He tilts his head to the left, letting the other ear drain into the towel.

Toki hovers anxiously over him. “Ams you gonna be okay?” he asks. “Ohfucks— you bleeds all over deh place. I’m sorry—”

“I forgives you, if only you shuts deh fuck up,” Skwisgaar hisses. He glances around the room. Nathan and Pickles are lounging shirtless in the hot tub, while Murderface, mostly clothed, sits on the edge, soaking his feet. “How did I ends up in here?” Skwisgaar asks.

Pickles snickers. “Toki ran intah dah room carryin’ you in his arms like Princess Peach, and babblin’ about what a fuckup he is, and how he always ruins everything, and cryin’ dhat he fucken killed you or whatever.” He shakes his head, smiling fondly into the mouth of his tiki drink and twirling the little paper umbrella. “And I was like: ‘Dood, calm down. He ain’t even dead, he just looks passed dah fuck out.’ So we all made fun of Toki for a while… and dhen you woke up.” 

“You alls ams dicks!” Toki yells, taking a plastic cartridge of pH balance solution from the hot tub hutch and throwing it at Pickles’s head. 

“Okay, sahrry,” Pickles laughs, rubbing his brow bone. “But come on man, what are we supposed tah do? _ Naht _make fun of you?” 

“Yeah Toki, be reaschonable,” says Murderface. 

Nathan grumbles to himself, popping open what, to judge by the collection of empty bottles beside him, must be his sixth beer. “Not that I like, actually care, or anything,” he says. “But uh. Skwisgaar. What exactly happened to you?”

Skwisgaar sighs, looking from Nathan to Toki, and trying to decide how the fuck he’s going to explain himself. _ He _ can’t even fully account for his own behavior, and he certainly doesn’t expect his bandmates to understand. 

“I had aks him to fix my diabetes,” says Toki. He swallows, meeting Skwisgaar’s gaze. “But I thinks you did somet’ing else more den dat.” His sits down on the sofa next to Skwisgaar, his pale eyes going wide. “I feels uncredibles,” he says. 

Skwsigaar’s heart flutters, and he looks at the floor. “I maybes gots a little bit… carried away,” he says. He’s not even properly mad at Toki, he realizes. This is exactly what he wanted, for Toki to look at him like that again— and it feels great, and he hates it. The thirst for Toki’s admiration isn’t new, of course, but the sudden clarity and intensity of a feeling he’s used to burying under several layers of cognitive dissonance is making him want to disappear into the fucking floor. Hey Odin, or whoever, he thinks, raking a hand over his face. I hereby forfeit my Viking god powers, if only you’ll release me from this Hell. He looks up to find Nathan staring at him, eyebrows raised. “Toki was being, you knows, all sloppies drunks and pat’eticks,” he says. “Cryink to me about his stupids problems.” 

“Brutal,” says Nathan. “Toki, no offense but. You can’t hold your liquor.” 

“My lord.” The klokateer reappears, offering Skwisgaar a jumbo novelty Duncan Hills iced coffee cup full of strawberry nutrition shake. Skwisgaar tosses the used towel at his face, and accepts the cup without looking at him. “Ja, sos,” he snorts derisively, hair pouring forward as he hunches over, steadying himself on an arm of the sofa. “I guess mainlining deh primordials cosmicks lifesforce of deh universe ams turnings me into euhhhh…” He glares at a speck of dried blood on the floor, too exhausted and embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone. “Bigs crybaby dildos whats ams feelinks sorrys for everybodies.” 

“Wow that’sch scho gay,” says Murderface. “Hey, maybe you schould go work for the Wisch for Schomething Foundation. ‘Pleasche, Mr. Schkwisgaar,’” he rolls his eyes and adopts a grating falsetto. “‘I’m a little girl dying of fucking luekemia. Will you kissch it better?’”

“Fucks you,” says Skwisgaar, with no real venom. He sucks the pink shit through a big milkshake straw, pondering his existence. He’s got to stop dicking around and figure out what he’s going to do with himself. It occurs to him now that he has no idea what’s going to happen when the press inevitably finds out about his powers. But one thing’s for sure: he’s not going to be ready to face any of it unless and until he can get his emotions back under control.

He hears a crinkling sound, and looks over to see Toki opening a huge bag of candy corn pumpkins propped on his lap. “Ams you reallies goink to eats doze now?” he asks, narrowing his eyes incredulously. 

“Sorries,” Toki cringes. He pauses sheepishly for a moment before shoveling a handful into his mouth. “Does you wants some?” he offers, chewing. “Dhey’s really good.”

Skwisgaar watches him, lips parted in bewilderment. “Ja, acktuallies,” he finally sighs. “I kind of do.” He reaches into the bag, grabbing a handful of candy corn and washing it down with a swig of his drink. The combination of corn syrup, confectioners wax, and artificial strawberry flavoring is weirdly delicious. He grabs some more, realizing that almost anything would probably taste good now, because he’s so damn hungry. He can practically _ feel _ his depleted body putting the calories to immediate use, like pouring oil into a searing hot skillet. 

Just then, Offdensen bursts through the door, looking especially haggard and put-out. “Skwisgaar,” he barks. “Why am I being told you’re dead?” 

“Eughh…” Skwisgaar hems, before shoving the straw back in his mouth so he won’t have to answer. 

“Alright then,” Offdensen casts around, “who else wants to tell me what the hell is going on here?” 

“Oh, uh, I’ve got this,” says Nathan, raising his hand like it’s a class. “Toki emotionally manipulated Skwisgaar into curing his Type 2 Diabetes, and then Skwisgaar blacked out, and ruptured his eardrums, and started bleeding all over the place. So Toki carried him in here, whining to us about him being dead. But uh. Don’t worry. He’s alive.”

“I can see that,” says Offdensen. He turns back to Skwisgaar. “So: I can’t even leave you alone for a couple of hours? Is that what we’ve learned today?” He walks over to the sofa. Skwisgaar looks away, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Well,” says Offdensen. “You’re not dead. How not-dead are you?” 

“I ams fine,” Skwisgaar mutters. 

“Uh-huh,” says Offdensen, sarcastic. “Of course you are. Can you walk?” Skwisgaar nods. “Good,” says Offdensen. “Wanna get up and follow me then, so we can discuss this elsewhere?” 

Skwisgaar climbs shakily up off the sofa, stifling any reaction to the stabbing pain in his right side. His skin feels hot. Hotter, he notices, around his ribs, where it seems like some sort of internal damage is being repaired. He pops the lid off his Duncan Hills novelty cup, knocking back the rest of his nutrition shake in the hopes of helping the process along. “Whatevers,” he says. “Fine.” He follows Offdensen across the room, unable to restrain himself from stealing a backward glance at Toki, who watches him go with terrible, glistening eyes.

Offdensen leads him down the corridor, hands clasped behind his back like a general. “So,” he begins, once they’re well out of earshot of the others. “What are we gonna do with you?” Skwisgaar frowns at him. He was expecting their manager to scold him, not to ask for his opinion on the matter. Hearing Offdensen sound so uncertain is disturbing. “Help me out here,” says Offdensen. “Should I be sending you to therapy or something?”

Skwisgaar scoffs. “Sends Toki to therapies, dis ams his fault. He gots a real drinking problem, you knows. And he ezpeckt me to cleans up his mess, as usuals.” He holds his chin up, trying to look severe. “He ams been taking agzvantage of my magnanimities for far too longs.”

“Uh-huh,” says Offdensen. “Right.” He searches Skwisgaar’s face, formulating a different strategy of attack. “What’s it like?” he asks.

“Whats you means?” 

He peers philosophically down the dark corridor ahead of them. “Wielding that kind of power,” he says. “Having that raw, cosmic energy flowing through you. I bet it’s really intense. Maybe even… intoxicating.” He nods to himself, as though lost in thought. “It obviously hurts you, but you keep doing it,” he says. “So, you must be enjoying it, at least on some level. You don’t seem that worried about taking it too far. Do you think you’re invincible now?” he asks, giving Skwisgaar a sideways glance. “I’m, ah, actually asking you that,” he says. “Because I don’t know whether you are or not.” 

Skwisgaar follows his gaze, peering into the darkness. “Its horts me,” he says, thinking aloud, “but its also fixes me. It only horts me when I really forces it. But as soon as I stops forcing it, it goes backs to, eugh—_ normals_, I guess. Normals is ams when its just kind of… keeps healink me all deh times. Dat part doesn’t horts, it just ehh…”

Offdensen cocks an eyebrow. “It just what?” 

Skwisgaar stops walking. “I don’ts wish to talk about it,” he says.

“I’m not doing this to embarrass you,” says Offdensen, pivoting to face him. “I’m trying to help you. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.” 

“It just… makes me really… _sensitives_, okay!” Skwisgaar huffs. He scrunches his eyes shut. His skin is burning. “Like I feels everyt’ing… I don’t know. _More_.” 

Offdensen gives a short nod. “Ah. I think I understand.” He starts walking again, motioning for Skwisgaar to follow him. They travel in silence for several minutes. Skwisgaar grits his teeth, debating whether or not to mention the pain in his abdomen, which may or may not be an out-of-place organ. The back of his throat keeps welling up with blood, and he keeps swallowing it back down. On the one hand, it could be something serious; But on the other hand, he’s kind of perversely eager to find out what will happen if he just let’s it take care of itself. 

Offdensen comes to a stop at the end of the hallway, in front of Skwisgaar’s bedroom door. “I know you really, ah. Care about Toki,” he says. “You don’t have to respond to that.” Skwisgaar stares past him, his heart fluttering again, like before. “I think that anyone in your position would want to use their abilities to help the people they care about,” says Offdensen gently. “It’s not something you need to be ashamed of. Just. _ Please_. Don't do anything stupid.” Skwisgaar finally meets his gaze, wanting to object, and quickly realizing there’s no point. Offdensen studies him for a moment. “Alright,” he says, seemingly satisfied. “Why don’t you get some rest. We can worry about all this tomorrow.”

Nodding mutely, Skwisgaar enters his room, letting Offdensen close the door behind him. The lights are off, and all he hears are ocean sounds in his ruptured ears. Finally alone, he stops trying to conceal his exhaustion and tumbles, boots and all, into bed. No insomnia this time. No anxious, racing thoughts. He sighs as warm static pours over his skin, coaxing him into a deep, healing sleep.

  
  


That night, he dreams about his mother.

He’s a little boy, maybe seven or eight, the first time he finds her on the toilet with her underwear around her ankles and a rivulet of bright, syrupy blood streaming down her leg. She’s been yelling for him to come in and help her, and when he opens the bathroom door to see her, glassy-eyed and bleeding from the genitals, he screams because he thinks she’s dying. 

She tells him to calm down and get her the box of tampons from the medicine cabinet. He had wondered what those things were for. He retrieves them, careful not to disturb the paper cup full of wine, or the handful of loose pills she has left precariously on the edge of the sink. 

She unwraps a tampon, reaching between her legs, and he looks away, shocked by the gore. He asks her what’s wrong with her, rubbing tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. She explains that she’s bleeding because she’s a woman. We bleed, she says, so that we can give you life. And you men take it for granted. 

She looks sad. Don’t be like these men, she says, gesturing through the doorway, as if they’re standing right there, in the empty hall. Don’t treat us like dirt. 

The room dissolves, and he’s standing in a driveway on a suburban street, beneath a black sky salted with stars. He’s older, maybe sixteen, and already towering over her. She’s screaming at him, and throwing things, a compact mirror, a metal lighter. He grabs her by the waist and lifts her off the ground, carrying her down the driveway. She kicks and pummels him with her fists, and he slams her against the side of the car. 

He tells her they’re leaving, and that they’re never going to see Lukas again. Lukas is standing on the porch, clutching his broken nose and yelling about how he knows people, how he can have her killed. Calling her a traitorous whore. She collapses into the passenger’s seat, allowing herself to be strapped in, and sobs the whole way home. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road ahead of them, doesn’t say another word to her for the rest of the night. But he skips school the next day, and makes them both breakfast. 

He only realized he was getting really big when he noticed that the men she brought around had started to fear him. He places a cup of coffee and a plate of messmör toast in front of her, and tells her that if Lukas tries to come after her, he’s going to kill him. Her eyes crinkle fondly, and she tells him he won’t do that, because it’s not in his nature.

He’s very small, and they are sitting on a piano bench in the lobby of a big hotel, waiting for a man to step out of the elevator and call her upstairs for one of her modeling auditions. It’s around Christmas time, and they’re sipping complimentary hot cocoa, provided to them by the people at the reception desk. She asks him to hold her cup for a moment, so that she can run her hands over the keyboard. I wish we had one at home, she says. She starts playing a Christmas song. Then I could teach you how to play, she says. He puts both cups down beside him on the bench so he can bang on the keys, ruining the song. He giggles, and she grabs him, kissing the top of his head, again and again. Not exactly Mozart, she says. But I love you anyway. I love you too, he tries to say, but the image floats away like snow. 

  
  


Skwisgaar yawns, rolling onto his back and sweeping his oily, tangled hair out of his face. He reaches blindly for his phone on the nightstand and turns it over to check the time. It’s the middle of the day; He’s been asleep for over fourteen hours. Taking a deep breath, he presses a hand to his ribs to verify that the pain is gone, and is relieved to find that everything seems to be back in its proper place. 

He sits up, stretching his arms above his head, and notices that his pillowcase is soaked with blood from his ears, and nose, and mouth. His hearing seems to be back to normal, so he isn’t too worried about it, but it does make him realize he’s filthy. Kicking off his boots, he shucks his sweaty, blood-spattered clothes and tosses them into the trash before padding over to the bathroom. 

He takes a nice long piss, waiting for the shower to warm up, and rehearses the events of the previous day in his mind. Today, he resolves, he’s not going to embarrass himself; He’s going to be all about taking it easy. And no one— least of all _ Toki fucking Wartooth —_is going to make him lose his cool this time around.

He steps into the shower, scrubbing the dried blood from his face and neck until the water runs clear. Probing gently, he finds that his ear drums, and sinuses, and throat all seem perfectly healed. After shampooing his hair (twice), conditioning, detangling, and washing himself all over with soap, he takes a moment to stand under the warm water, eyes closed in meditation. Aside from the insistent hunger, his body feels great. The all-over soreness has eased a bit, to the point where the sensation is now fully pleasant, and the steady thrum of power inside of him seems less frenetic and more manageable than before. 

Toweling off, he studies himself in the mirror as he works a daub of curling serum into his hair to help it wave properly. There’s something slightly eerie about his appearance, and it takes him a minute to figure out what it is. His skin has probably never looked so luminous and flawless, and he realizes this must be because it’s _ new_. All of his cells are new. He stares at himself, brushing his teeth, exhilarated, and kind of strangely… scared. Just how much damage can he take, he wonders, and still wake up like this? How quickly would something have to kill him, before he would have the chance to regenerate from it? It’s not like he’s going to start hurting himself on purpose in order to find out… But there’s a weird, dark part of him that suddenly can’t stop thinking about it. 

He gets dressed— in all white again, because fuck the police —and makes his way down the corridor to the dining hall, where the rest of the band are already eating their lunch. Striding casually and confidently into the room, he takes his usual seat between Toki and Nathan, and pretends not to notice that everyone is openly staring at him. Jean-Pierre is ready at once with his morning coffee, despite the fact that it’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon, so at least there’s that.

“You all gotsta try dese,” Toki gushes. Skwisgaar looks to his right to find him happily demolishing a preposterous tower of pancakes. Having been cured of his diabetes only yesterday, Toki is wasting no time at all in trying to contract it again. Eyes shining like a child’s on Christmas morning, he brings a fluffy, golden forkful to his mouth, chasing it with a sip from a gravy boat full of maple syrup. 

“Toki, that’s disgusting,” says Nathan.

Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow when Jean-Pierre places a second stack of pancakes in front of him. “I orders you some,” says Toki. “I can’t be deh only one to tries dese!” 

“Oukay, whatevers,” Skwisgaar sighs, because he’s a stoic now, like Marcus Aurelius— Marcus Aurelius was one of the cool emperors, right? —It doesn’t matter. The point is, he doesn’t get into trivial arguments anymore. He’s totally unflappable. He’s a fucking marble statue. (The pancakes look fucking delicious, and Toki’s enthusiasm for them is ruinously adorable.) He takes a bite, trying not to think about the fact that he’s developing a sweet tooth worse than Toki’s because of his excessive energy needs. 

“Uhhh…” Nathan awkwardly clears his throat. “You’re, uh. Are you?”

“I ams fine,” says Skiwsgaar, sipping his coffee, like an adult. Not maple syrup. 

Nathan frowns down at the pulled-pork sandwich in front of him. “Cool, cool.” 

“You guysch never aschk me how I’m doing when I get schick,” says Murderface, loudly and through a mouthful of baked beans. “Remember lascht year when I had pneumonia? No one cared. But you’re _ all _ gay for Schkwisgaar.” He’s got one of those soda fountain milkshake glasses in front of him. He takes a gulp, forcing the pink liquid through his nose and letting it dribble into his moustache. “Look everybody! I’m _ dying!_”

“Dood, dhat’s so gross,” Pickles cringes. 

“Whatever,” says Murderface. “_I _ get it. The band would fall apart without _ him_, but _ I’m _ replaschable.” He crams in a petulant spoonful of beans. 

“I mean…” Nathan looks at him. “_You _said it, not me.” 

“Gahddamnit, Murderface,” says Pickles, putting his utensils down. “I hate it when you get like dhis. Stahp fishing fer vahlidation.” 

Murderface scowls, guzzling his pink milkshake. “Fine. I don’t need your schampathy,” he says.

Skwisgaar peers down the table at him, amused. “Dids you, by any chance, gets dat out of deh big unlabeled containter in deh refrigerators?” he asks.

“Yeah. Scho?”

“I don’t recommends you to be drinkings dhat,” he laughs. 

“But… But it’sch _ schtrawberry_.” 

“It also haves like, a quazillions calorie. Probablies will makes you fat.”

“What?!” Murderface yells. “Caloriesch make you fat?”

Skwisgaar shrugs. “I amn’t no doctors but, ja. I t’inks dat ams what dhey ams telling me. I burns too much calorie, so I haves to drinks dat shit so I don’t turns into like, a withered husk or somethink.” 

“That’sch scho brutal.”

“Ja, I know.”

“No, I mean brutal for _ me!_” says Murderface. “All thisch time I didn’t even know why I wasch fat!” he yells, throwing his bowl of baked beans against the wall. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?!” 

“Well,” says Nathan. “What are you gonna do about it? Are you gonna go on a diet?”

Murderface crosses his arms. “No. Fuck that.” 

“So. Having that information makes no difference to you. ‘Cause you’re gonna do the same thing either way.” 

“Yeah.” Murderface exhales through his nose like a bull. “I hate all of you,” he grumbles, sliding down in his chair. 

Day two is going to go great, thinks Skwisgaar, knocking back the last of his coffee. Everyone’s acting pretty much normal, he’s not feeling the urge to do anything stupid or crazy, and pancakes turned out to be an excellent choice. After lunch, they all meander out into the corridor, and Pickles calls for everyone to follow him down to the rec room for an exciting group activity. “Before you came in,” he says, turning to Skwisgaar, “I was tellin’ everybody about dhis crazy new shit I gaht from dhat Isreali dood we met in Hong Kong…” 

“Unfortunatelies,” says Skwisgaar stopping in the middle of the hallway, “I will haves to decline.” 

“What dah hell,” says Pickles. “Why?”

Skwisgaar strikes an ethereal pose, gazing off at some invisible horizon. “I ams currentlies embarks on a solemn quest to advance my guitars playing beyonds, eugh, mere mortals capabilities. So,” he points at his head. “I can’t be fuckings up deh nueros-logickscal connections.”

Pickles gawps at him. “Are you being fucken serious right now?” He looks around at his bandmates for support. “You gotta get yer priorities fixed, man. Right? Am I right?” Nathan shrugs. All of them instinctively know better than to get involved in guitar versus drugs with Skwisgaar and Pickles. It’s unstoppable-force meets immovable-object. “Aren’t you already good _ enough _at deh guitar?” Pickles sputters. “Fuck deh guitar!” 

“_Pickle_…” says Skwisgaar, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “How coulds you says somthink like dat to me? Musics ams much more importants den getting high.” 

“Ehhh… Is it dough?” Pickles asks, narrowing his eyes. “Is it _ really?_”

“Ja.”

He rubs his chin, examining Skwisgaar like he might be an imposter. “So lemme get dhis straight,” he says. “New Skwisgaar murders total strangers on the street fer fun… But won’t get high wid’ us?”

“Dat ams eugh...” Skwisgaar considers this for a moment. “Pretty much, ja.” He shrugs. 

“Okay Nancy Reagan, suit yourself.” Pickles throws up his hands, utterly exasperated. Nathan and Murderface follow him down the hallway towards the rec room, but Toki lingers behind.

“I catches up with guys in a minutes,” he calls after them, as they wave him off without turning around. Once they’re out of earshot, he looks at Skwisgaar with a kind of desperate intensity. “Ams you reallies okay?” he breathes. 

Skwisgaar rolls his eyes. “I’m fines,” he says. “Stops freaking out. Yous being a dildo.” He tosses his perfectly waved hair, as if to prove how fine he is, but Toki’s brow remains scrunched in distress. “Hows about you just takes it easy,” says Skwisgaar, striking a good balance, in his estimation, between annoyance and patronizing concern. 

“Sorries,” says Toki. “It ams just dat— For a minutes dere, I really thoughts I hads kills you.” He worries his lip, looking like he wants to say more, but can’t for some reason.

Skwisgaar stills, feeling the vibration of Toki’s dark energy against him, and not trusting himself to make any moves. Some part of him shudders with longing, and he forces it down. “Toki,” he says, keeping his tone even. “I ams a god. You can’ts kills me.” 

  
“I—” Toki blinks. “I can’ts kills you?” He gazes into Skwisgaar’s eyes, enthralled. Breath shortening, he drifts unconsciously closer, causing the space between their bodies to hum. “_I can’ts kills you_,” he whispers, seemingly more to himself than to Skwisgaar. And just when the urge to reach out and touch him has become unbearable, he saves Skwisgaar from the mortification of succumbing to it by turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaving comments is totally metal, you guys.


	4. Chapter 4

Abigail gives him the thumbs-up sign and leans over the talkback mic. “Alright,” she says. “Ready when you are.” 

“I’m ready,” says Skwisgaar, a little impatient. He’s trying not to be _ too _ short with her, since he appreciates her coming in early to work on a couple of things with him before the rest of Dethklok manage to drag themselves out of bed for their official recording session. He’s been doing nonstop finger drills all week, and taking in basically nothing but pink-shake through a straw so he won’t even have to put the Explorer down to eat. The constant hunger which is now a fact of life for him is almost beneficial to the extent that it gives him a kind of piercing, amphetamine-like focus. While his bandmates have been getting trashed, he thinks, he’s been getting a lot of important work done. And, sure, maybe driving himself a little bit crazy. Having some weird, intrusive thoughts about hurting himself just to find out what happens. Wondering what the hell Toki’s been up to all week, and why they’ve barely seen him. But all things considered, Skwisgaar figures he’s got his life under control. 

The red light winks on and he launches into a fill passage, part of something he’s been writing for a while now. The cosmic hum inside his body had better not be causing any audio interference, because he can’t stop it from rising with his emotions as he pours over the melody. It’s so crisp, fuck, his fingers are barely even touching the notes, he’s practically floating. He’s already adding in the rhythm in his head, though he doubts any version of this is going to make it onto the album. It’s not likely to be heavy enough for Nathan’s tastes, which is just as well, because it’s really for Skwisgaar’s own edification. He just wants this recorded so he can establish a baseline for his experiments in the future.

He has all kinds of vague plans for what this beyond-mortal music is supposed to sound like, but for now it’s largely a matter of training to exhaustion, and sleeping, and repeating. Sleep for him is profoundly restorative; He used to suffer from insomnia, and would wake up often in the middle of the night, but now it comes over him suddenly and powerfully, plunging him into a kind of orphic trance that troubles him with vivid, emotionally taxing dreams, but always leaves him strong, and healthy, and brimming with energy in the morning. 

The point of all this is to kill himself with finger drills until he literally passes out, guitar in hand, thereby forcing his body to rewrite itself to keep up with the demands of the routine. The process is iterative, and it’s lack of teleology appeals to the nihilist philosopher in him; There is no master copy of him, only the endless now of being perpetually remade according to the dictates of a certain emergent pattern. The calluses on his fingers don’t heal, for example, because they’ve been written into the pattern through years of stress repetition, like a penciled note in the margin of the recipe for making and remaking him.

DNA being mere sheet music, the organism is charged with the potentiality and suspense of a live performance, never quite appearing as read, and occasionally subject to error and improvisation. Thoughts like this occur to him a lot, now that the raw essence of life is never far from his awareness. He suspects that being a musician has prepared him particularly well to cope with the kind of extra-sensory perception his powers give him. Feeling the lifeforce of everything around him can be overwhelming at times, but it’s easy for him to mentally analogize the way it engages his emotions with the way his heart is ruled by something so achingly ephemeral as vibrations on the air. 

Coming to the end of the piece, he looks up to find Abigail staring at him strangely. She leans forward, her breath touching the glass, furrowing her brow and switching on the talkback mic. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“Augh, fucks,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Ja, I’m fine.” He didn’t even notice he was crying. 

She gets up from her swivel chair and enters the booth. “Hey,” she says reaching for him. “Are you sure?” 

“Ja, ja,” he says, frustrated. “Dere amn’t nothing wrongs.” She looks dubious. To be fair, she’s never seen him burst into tears like that, so it probably seems pretty weird. “I’m not upset at all, honestlies,” he says. How best to explain? He looks towards the ceiling. “I ams just reallies… _ reallies _ passionate abouts deh guitar.” 

She crosses her arms and tilts her head to one side, studying him. “Ohhh,” she says smiling gently, “I get it. That’s how you _ normally _ feel when you play. You’re just having a harder time hiding it right now.” 

He nods. Fuck, this is going to be really annoying. “Well,” he says. “Better heres den, you know, on stage. Gots to pays careful attentions to dat.”

She winces in sympathy, and a bit of amusement. “Do you want me to order you some waterproof corpse paint, just in case?”

“Ja,” he sighs, bringing a hand to his forehead. “Dat probablies woulds be, eugh, prudent. Fucks.” The hum is more subdued now, normalizing along with his heart rate. “Hey, how ams deh recordings you t’inks?” He follows her back into the studio, taking a seat beside her at the controls. 

“Good!” she says. “You’re sounding great.” 

“No problems wit deh equipsments? Deh microphones don’ts picks up dat, eh—” He scrunches his eyes and splays a hand in front of his chest. “_Bhzzzzzt_?” 

She shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

“Dat sound,” he says. “Dat my body ams making all deh times.”

  
  
“I don’t hear anything,” she says.

He leans back in his chair, relieved. “Oukay, great. I’s been worried about dat.”

She laughs. “About what? _ What _ sound?” 

Skwisgaar frowns, laying a hand over his heart. The hum in his chest is constant, pleasant, occasionally euphoric and, past a certain volume, excruciatingly painful. He can kind of turn it up or down at will, but he can never turn it off completely, in a way that makes it similar to breathing. “It amn’t actuallies a sound,” he muses. “I guess I just t’inks of it likes a sound, because dat ams deh only way I knows likes to t’inks of it.” 

She presses play on the recording. “Do you hear it in there?” 

He closes his eyes. “No.” 

“Then I guess we’re good.” She shrugs.

It’s a little past three in the afternoon when Nathan finally makes his appearance, followed by Pickles and Murderface respectively, having slept off whatever it was they had cause to sleep off. Skwisgaar decides it’s a good time to let Murderface record his bass lines, both because he hasn’t had a good opportunity to bitch about Murderface’s playing in a while, and because it poses absolutely no danger of making him cry. They put in a couple of hours like that, only for Nathan to scrap everything, and all retire to the sofa for bagels and lox, except for Abigail, who stays in her swivel chair and just orders a small decaf coffee. 

Nathan finishes his second everything bagel and balls up the wax paper wrapper. “Alright,” he grunts, “I’m just gonna say it: Where the hell is Toki?” He looks around at everyone. They’ve all noticed Toki’s absence, of course, but no one wants to talk about it. Murderface coughs. “I know I said we didn’t need him to make the album, I know I said that,” Nathan continues. “But not having him fooling around in the background to distract us is really… distracting.” 

“Dood, I haven’t seen ‘em in three days,” says Pickles. “He barely comes outta his room.” 

Skwisgaar looks up from cramming a bagel in his mouth to find everyone else staring at him. “Whats?” he demands. 

“Come ahn,” says Pickles, rolling his eyes. “It’s gahtta be about you. It’s always about you. What didya do tah him dhis time?”

“For your informations,” says Skwisgaar, “I haves not seen him all weeks neithers. And! I was beink, I believes,_ exceptionallies_ nice to him before dat.”

“Give Toki some space, you guys,” says Abigail. “He’s just taking a few personal days. I think he might be going through something.” 

Nathan shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry Skwisgaar,” he says, “but that sounds like it’s definitely about you.” 

“It coulds bes about anyt’ing!” Skwisgaar sputters. “Toki ams a dramas princess, what deh hells you wants me to does about it?” He really doesn’t know what Toki’s deal is, but he’s awfully worried that Pickles is right, and that their last, cryptic interaction may have something to do with it. But of course, he can’t tell anyone about that. 

“You guys,” says Abigail, “it’s okay. We can just wait for him to work on the album. We’re still on schedule. It’s not the end of the world.” 

Murderface stands up from the couch and gives his bandmates a doleful once-over. “Yup,” he says, hiking up the waistband of his shorts. “It’sch juscht asch I schuschpected. You’re all gay.” He holds his fists in front of his face, twisting them to mime crying. “Oh, boo-hoo, Schkwischgaar’sch going through schomething. Toki’sch going through schomething. No one would be worried about _ me_, if I waschn’t here. You know why? I’ll tell you why: It’sch becausche I’m ugly.” 

“Murderface,” says Nathan, “how do you even know. What people say about you. When you’re not here?”

“Yer projecting,” says Pickles. “Dhis is yer insecurity tahking. We’ve been over dhis—” 

“Everyone only caresch about Toki and Schkwischgaar becausche they’re ridiculouschly good-looking!” says Murderface. “I have ten-timesch the pathosch and charischma of either of thesche marble-mouthed jabroniesch, but where’sch my pity-party? There’sch justch no other exchplanation for it. It’sch becausche you’re _ all gay!_” He glances at Abigail. “Not you, Abigail. I don’t think you’re gay.” 

“Wow,” she deadpans. “Thanks.” 

After a pretty unproductive and annoying session, Skiwsgaar retreats to his room. He doesn’t feel like palling around or going to dinner, especially not if he’s going to have to field any more jabs about Toki. If whatever Toki’s been brooding over does involve him, then Toki’s just going to have to come to him and say so. But it’s not his problem yet. 

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, having just released the stop from his metronome, when his phone rings. Catching the pendulum and replacing the stop, he frowns down at it, not recognizing the caller. “Ja?” he says. “Who dis ams?”

“_Skwisgaar?_” There’s a pause, and some noise, like rustling papers. The voice on the other end of the line is tinny from bad reception. “_Hi! It’s Týr. How are you?_”

“_Týr?_” Skwisgaar asks. “_What—? How the hell did you get this number?_”

“_Well. Your mother gave it to me_.” 

Skwisgaar stands up, pacing across the room. “_How the_ _hell did _she _get this number?!_”

“_I just wanted to say… I’ve been thinking about you. I know it’s none of my business, but I hope you’re doing alright_.” 

“_I’m doing fine_,” he says. He pauses, hearing himself. “_That sounds like deflection. But it’s really not. I’m really just fine. Actually,_” he adds, “_I’ve kind of, uh, solved the mystery_.” 

“_What?_” exclaims Týr. “_You mean… about your father?_”

“_Yeah._”

“_Oh wow, that’s—! Sorry_,” he says. “_I don’t know how you feel about it._”

“_Well…_” says Skwisgaar, considering this. He approaches the window. Spumes of black smoke from the chimneys of Mordhaus dominate the sky, but he can just make out a sprinkle of distant stars. “_The truth is kind of unbelievable, and I can’t really tell you about it now. But, yeah. It’s actually really good to finally have an answer. Even if it’s…_” he laughs, “_the most insane one possible_.” 

“_I’m glad_,” says Týr. “_It’s not my place but…_” he sighs. “_I do hope you’ll tell your mother what you’ve learned. I think she’d really want to know_.”

No fucking way, Skwisgaar thinks. “_I’ll think about it_,” he says, instead. “_Hey, how are _ you, _ by the way?_” he asks. 

“_Been better_,” says Týr. “_Been worse, too, though. I’ll live._” Skwisgaar watches the horizon, not sure what else to say. “_Well, I won’t keep you any longer_,” says Týr. “_J__ust wanted to check in_.”

“_Yeah_,” says Skwisgaar, frowning at a baroque shape in the smog. “_Thanks_.”

Hours of finger drills can’t seem to put the call out of his mind. He’s lying horizontally across his bed with his eyes closed, still fully dressed except for his boots, and furiously fretting the Explorer. Now that Týr has put it to him, he can’t stop rehearsing this hypothetical conversation. 

_Hey Mom, guess what? Turns out, I’m_ _a god. _Or half-god? He’s not even sure what to call it anymore. The daily reality of it is a lot more mundane and complicated than that makes it sound. He still has a human-ish body, that bleeds and feels pain, after all. On the other hand, he’s at least semi-invincible and can verifiably raise the fucking dead, so maybe it’s a bit of a wash. _Hey Mom, guess what? I’m increasingly afraid I might stab myself in the stomach or something, because I’m convinced I’ll just go into a weird fugue state and wake up totally fine. You know how, when I was a kid, I loved to run outside before breakfast and stomp around in that crispy fresh layer of snow? There’s just something about waking up every morning covered in a brand new skin that makes me want to start ripping it off of myself._

He can’t even begin to imagine what Serveta would say if she found out he was… whatever he is. He can’t decide what he’d _ want _ her to say, either. _ Hey Mom, guess what? You know how you didn’t fucking want me, and all this time you’ve been wracking your brain, trying to figure out when the hell your birth control must have failed? Well get ready to laugh, because it turns out, it was some sort of immaculate conception! _

Trying to anticipate her reaction is pointless, he thinks, and it puts him in a very bad frame of mind. It puts him in the mind of what it was like to negotiate her fickleness, and carelessness, and unreliability, and lack of boundaries when he was a kid. He was always trying to figure out what she was thinking back then, and worrying about what she was going to do next, and he can’t bear the feeling of powerlessness this still evokes in him. 

They moved around a lot, especially when he was little; sometimes shacking up with various men, but more often than not it was just the two of them. Sometimes she seemed happy, she’d take him ice-skating, there’d be things other than alcohol in the fridge, and then sometimes he’d find her screaming at his grandmother over the phone, or sobbing in the middle of the kitchen floor. Sometimes they had what seemed like plenty of money, and sometimes it would all be gone, and there’d be nothing left to eat but a sleeve of gingerbread digestive biscuits while waiting for the electricity to be turned back on. And then, of course, there were the men: always coming and going, usually ignoring him but sometimes trying to act friendly towards him, sometimes frightening him, leering at him, touching his hair, and eventually frightened _ of _ him, pupils dilating when they stepped through the front door and he stood up from the kitchen table. 

You’ve saved my life, Serveta told him once, seemingly apropos of nothing. You’ve saved my life so many times. That had felt so good to hear when he was ten, and made him so damn angry later.

He found her passed out on pills a couple of months before he dropped out of high school and moved to Göteborg. There had been a time when he would have picked her up and carried her to her bed, or maybe even called the hospital. And a time before that, before he was strong enough to carry her, when he would have taken a pillow from the sofa and placed it under her head. But in the end, he had stepped over her, and taken her vodka out of the freezer, and stood there drinking it and staring down at her with nothing but simmering contempt and disgust. _ I _ am not _ your _mother, he remembers saying, although that could be an interpolation, and of course she wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway.

In Göteborg, he was a different person. Adults had always liked him, teachers had always found him polite and helpful, but other children seemed suspicious of how quiet and intense he was, and frequently mistook him for a girl. In Göteborg, though, people _ wanted _ him, people wanted him _ more _ the more he acted like he didn’t give a fuck about them, and he became determined never to cede control over his happiness by giving one single fuck about anyone ever again. 

It wasn’t until much later— until, well, _Toki —_that he developed a sort of crypto-nurturing side, and by then it was impossible for him to see this long-buried aspect of his personality as anything other than weakness. Now though, it’s hard to avoid making the connection between his powers and the baffling impulses he occasionally struggles to subdue. He doesn’t believe there’s a true purpose to anything in the world, and even if some protective and nurturing tendency is somehow written into his very being, he’s by no means required to obey it. Still, it does give him a lot to think about. He’s been forced to have a lot more clarity about his weird, tortured attachment to Toki lately, and it’s starting to become obvious that denying its existence is not the path to stoic enlightenment. Excavating and trying to understand the whole thing seems pretty key if he’s ever going to learn how to control it. 

He remembers feeling a confounding level of investment in Toki’s musicianship, pretty much immediately. Toki’s speed picking was sloppy, but he showed potential. He had talent, but lacked discipline. Any trained listener would have given the same diagnosis. There was absolutely no mystery to it at all, and Skwisgaar was at a loss to explain why he found Toki’s guitar playing so endlessly fascinating. But from the very moment he heard it, that sound had pierced him through the heart. 

The first time Toki froze up during a show, Skwisgaar had absolutely lost it. Improvising quickly, he was able to carry the rest of the set himself, while Toki just stood there, staring vacantly into the pit like he had no idea where he was. Afterwards though, by the blue light of a rinky-dink hotel swimming pool, there was a fight that could have ended everything. He’d sounded great, everyone assured him. Half the audience probably didn’t even notice Toki blowing it. He’d _ wanted _ to be Dethklok’s only guitarist, and he’d just proven that he easily _ could _ have been. 

He remembers the stench of chlorine and urine, the set of Nathan’s mouth as he got ready to tackle him, and Toki retreating from him with haunted, milkstone eyes, the reflections off the water dappling his face with veins of light, like an opal. Everyone was yelling at him to calm down, to lay off the poor kid, to stop being such a demanding, unreasonable psycho, but he was inconsolable. Incompetence amongst his previous bands had filled him with either anger or schadenfreude, but he had never felt anything like this before, this confusion, and distress, and shame. He had never experienced someone else’s failure on stage as if it were his own. Toki was his pet project, and everything about it drove Skwisgaar crazy. He was resentful when the rest of the band expected him to play babysitter, and then jealous whenever one of them took it upon themselves instead. He was annoyed when Toki followed him around everywhere trying to copy him, and then disappointed when he didn’t. It didn’t even seem to matter whether Toki’s guitar playing was getting better or worse, because the sound of it drove him crazy either way. Magnus used to be the crazy one, the one who was impossible to please, but now it was _ him_, and the worst part was that he felt powerless to do anything about it.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, fretting out the rhythm line he was composing in the booth this morning. He doesn’t know how to get Toki up to the level he’d need to be at to play any of this experimental god-music, but it’s now dawning on him that he has to find a way, or the piece won’t be complete. Historically, attempts to teach Toki some discipline have been unsuccessful, but for reasons that are kind of, largely, definitely Skwisgaar’s fault, so maybe a different approach on his end would do the trick. 

With the benefit of hindsight, he thinks the reason he’s always found Toki’s playing so frustrating and spellbinding is not just that he can hear the potential in it, but that he yearns to see it realized. That yearning had terrified him in the beginning. He’d been in a dozen bands by the time they met, he was used to dropping anyone who couldn’t keep up with him like it was nothing, and then all of a sudden, he’d found himself _ stuck _ with this random kid. He had wanted to see this sad little urchin become great, to see him achieve all his stupid rainbow-lolipop dreams; He’d craved his admiration and fealty as confirmation of his _ own _ greatness, and these desires were so at odds with the story he had been telling himself about himself since the day he’d left home at the age of seventeen, that the sheer cognative dissonance drove him berserk. 

And now? At this point, Skwisgaar is forced to consider the possibility that the solution to his Toki-problem might be to just, sort of, _lean_ _into_ _it_. As Marcus Aurelius— or somebody —said, the life of the stoic is like an immovable rock, standing in the center of a rushing river; And sometimes you’ve got to be the rock, and sometimes you’ve got to be the river.

He knows the knock is coming before he hears it. He can sense Toki’s presence on the other side of the door. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he takes off the Explorer and props it in its upright stand. “Comes in,” he calls. He’d completely lost track of how long he’d been lying here, strumming away. The sky outside is pitch black. 

Toki looks awful. He shuffles in and closes the door behind him, hanging his head as if he expects Skwisgaar to beat him or something. “I hads a nightsmare,” he says. His voice is soft and strained, and his face is swollen, like he’s been crying for hours. 

Skwisgaar pats the space beside him. Toki is barefoot, dressed in a wrinkled shirt and Christmastree-print flannel pants, his hair a tangled mess. He slumps down next to Skwisgaar on the edge of the bed. “Toki, what ams deh matters?” Skwisgaar asks. Toki stares down at Skwisgaar’s hands, his mouth trembling. “Practicallies no one haves seens you all weeks,” says Skwisgaar. “Yous been in your rooms all dat times? Eugh?” He crouches over, trying to catch Toki’s eye. “Hey dere,” he says, growing impatient. “I ams tryink to be reals nice to you, Toki. Why you gives me a hard times?” 

“I hads a nightsmare,” Toki repeats. Skwisgaar touches his arm, startling him, and Toki seizes hold of his wrist. “You hasta help me,” he pleads. “I don’t knows if you can but— If you can’ts, den I fears dat nobody cans.” His grip is bruising. 

“Yous horting me,” says Skwisgaar. Toki lets go and buries his face in his hands. “I don’t knows how to explains it,” he sobs. “I ams afraid dat— Dat what I dreams ams really deh truth. What I dreams…” He looks hungrily again at Skwisgaar’s hands. 

“_Do you not know the words?_” Skwisgaar asks. “_Would it be easier in norsk?” _

Toki nods and rubs his nose on the back of his arm. _“Yeah, maybe_,” he huffs. He closes his eyes. “_I used to have this nightmare all the time, when I was a kid_,” he begins. Skwisgaar watches intently as his eyeballs move around behind their swollen lids. “_In it,_” says Toki, “_I’m climbing down the mountain towards our village in Norway. Everything looks fine from a distance, but when I get there, the people are running and screaming all over the place._” He turns away, lifting his chin and staring straight ahead at the wall, his voice flat. “_I see what looks like smoke coming out of the houses, and at first I think it’s a fire_,” he says. “_But then I realize, it’s the people. The people are just… bursting into clouds of ashes, or dust. Or maybe it’s salt, like Lot’s wife. I can’t really tell. Everywhere I look, it’s happening. I run as fast as I can into the forest, with the reindeer and the wolves, but then it’s happening to the animals, too. And then the trees. It’s raining down on me. I fall on the ground, and I cover my head, and when I finally look up, everything’s gone. I’m all alone under the sky, surrounded by piles of ashes. Everything else in the whole world is dead_.”

Skwisgaar blinks at him. “Dis ams only a dreams,” he says. Toki just stares at the wall. “_You say you need my help_,” says Skwisgaar quietly. 

“_Please_,” says Toki, his face crumpling in misery. “_I need you to help me stop it from happening._”

Skwisgaar’s pulse quickens. He has to claw back the urge to start laying his hands on Toki and healing him again. That’s not going to do it, at least not that alone. “_What do you mean?_” he asks. “_Toki, what are you afraid is gonna happen?_” He’s not good at talking, he thinks, frustrated. Whatever cosmic benevolence might lie at the center of him, it doesn’t supply him with any helpful insights about what to say to someone who’s been crying for a solid week. 

“_I'm pretty sure my parents aren’t really my parents_,” says Toki, in that same flat voice, still staring straight ahead at the wall. “_I’m pretty sure they’re my grandparents._” The thin skin around his nostrils, and at the corners of his eyes, is bright pink and flaky with dryness, but the rest of his face is white. _“I never knew that as a kid, though_,” he says. “_I ran away, when I overheard them talking about it. I don’t remember having a different mother, but I think she died, and they pretended to be my parents in order to save her reputation, because she wasn’t married or something like that. I overheard them saying that I was the spawn of Satan. I guess I thought that meant adultery. But now I think—_” He hesitates. 

“_I ended up living on the streets,_” he says, not finishing the thought. “_There was this nice lady who helped me get into a youth shelter. I think she worked for the government. She said she liked to help kids, because she couldn’t have kids of her own. I saw her every friday for a while. But then she got sick and died. Someone told me that her womb rotted inside of her. So I ran away from that place, too. When I joined Dethklok, I stopped having the dream. I tried to forget about it. Everything seemed like it was going to be okay. The deaths kept happening, but I just told myself it was bad luck. A series of coincidences. Then, after my father died— my grandfather, I guess —I started having the dream again._" He pauses, his mouth slightly open. His expression is totally hollow. “_I think my grandparents hated me because I killed her. My mother, I mean. Not by being born, but by loving her_. _ When I was a baby._”

Skwisgaar swallows. He wants to say something reassuring, but he can’t come up with anything to contradict Toki’s story. That rich, low, hypnotizing sound coming from Toki’s body— It’s Death. Should he tell Toki he likes it? Should he admit how delicious and soothing it feels when its purring darkness touches him? He’s afraid that might make matters worse. 

“_When I love people_,” says Toki, “_it kills them. For a long time, I tried to deny it, because it seemed so impossible. But now that all this crazy shit is happening with you…_” He finally turns to look at Skwisgaar, a few strands of his stringy hair sticking to the corner of his mouth. “_Your powers are _ definitely _ real. You really are some kind of angel or something, walking around on Earth like a regular human. So I must be— I don’t know. The opposite of what you are. Some kind of horrible demon._” He’s crying again, his shoulders shaking. “_So that’s where I’ve been all week,_” he gasps. “_There’s this evil force inside of me, and it won’t let me have anything. It ruins everything I touch. It kills everyone I love. And I don’t know how to stop it. But maybe _ you _ can stop it. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you for help_.”

Skwisgaar stands up and walks over to flip the light switch. “Lies down,” he says softly. He can still see the shine of Toki’s eyes tracking him through the semi-darkness. Toki just sits there, trembling. Returning to the side of the bed, Skiwsgaar presses on Toki’s shoulder, guiding him onto his back, before lying down beside him. “You stays deh night, okei?” he says. Toki nods mutely against the pillow. Skwisgaar watches him, uncertain how to proceed. If there was ever a time to go all-in on his desire to take care of Toki, it’s now. There’s just the small matter of his totally sucking at this sort of thing. He doesn’t know what kinds of assurances to offer, and he’s worried anything he says might cause Toki to freak out. “_I will help you,_” he settles on. “_Okay?_” 

Toki nods again, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

“_Should I…?_” Skwisgaar’s hand hovers a few centimeters above Toki’s shoulder in the darkness. 

“_Can you get it out of me?_” Toki asks, emphatic. 

Skwisgaar opens and closes his mouth. “_I don’t think so,_” he says carefully. He’s not like, an exorcist or anything; He wants to insist that there’s no need anyway, that the way Toki is is not a curse, but he doesn’t think that’ll be received in the spirit in which it’s intended. Toki’s power excites him; He longs to bring it forth, to help Toki change into his true, godlike form, and teach him to play the sacred music that’s going to somehow save the world. But all that will have to wait. “_I think I could shield specific people from it,_” he offers, “_if you let me know you were worried about them. I can definitely absorb the energy you give off._”

Toki looks fearful. “_And you’re sure it can’t… get you?_” he asks. “_How can you be sure?_”

Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow. How to explain the tenacity of his conviction that Toki can’t hurt him? Can only serve to compliment him, to inspire him, to make him stronger, in this as in all other respects. He takes Toki’s hand and brings it against his chest. “_You tell me_,” he says. The fearsome lightning in his body crisps and curls at Toki’s presence. Death blankets him, trying to smother him, but he is impossible for it to subdue— and he enjoys the struggle, becoming fizzy, and playful, and mildly intoxicated under its dark weight.

“_Oh—_” Toki gasps. “Wowee. Yous all sparkly insides,” he marvels. “Like yous made of Pops Rocks.”

“I ams made of deh cells,” Skwisgaar chuckles. “Dhey’s just rezgeneratings all deh times. _ I promise you, I can make new ones much faster than you can kill them_.”

Toki sags with relief, bringing his chin towards his chest. “Yous safe,” he whispers, his palm still pressed over Skwisgaar’s heart, as if to make sure it’s not going anywhere. 

“So you sees,” says Skwisgaar. “Whats you dreams amn’t nevers going to happen.”

“I wouldn’t be all alones,” says Toki, breathing faster. “You would still be dere.”

“Toki, relax!” says Skwisgaar. “I means, I amn’t going to lets you destroys all deh life on Eart’ in deh forst place! I don’t even t'ink dat ams something we needs to worries about.”

“_But if somehow it did happen—_” Toki shudders. He cringes, his whole face scrunching. “_Please, please promise me—” _

Skwisgaar pulls Toki against him, trying to stop him from shaking. “_I promise_,” he says to the crown of Toki’s head. “_You’re not gonna end up alone at the end of the world. No matter what happens, I’ll be there. Okay?_”

“_Okay_,” says Toki. He wriggles the arm which is caught between their bodies around Skiwsgaar’s side, returning the embrace. “_Thank you_,” he says. “_Okay. That really helps. Okay. Okay_.” 

Toki’s nose bumps his clavicle, and Skwisgaar can feel Toki’s breath rustling the vee of his shirt. This feels so awkward, so unbearably intimate. He puts one hand on the back of Toki’s head, and the other between his shoulder blades, in what he hopes is a proper, consoling arrangement. He can’t even remember the last time he did something like this. It’s certainly a far cry from banging groupies. He’s actually pretty sweet with them in general, because he considers it a matter of principle not to leave a lady unsatisfied, and he often lets them lay around afterwards to watch him practice if they want to, but it’s not like they’re telling secrets and braiding each other’s hair. Occasionally one of them might get weird or clingy but, well, that’s what security is for.

Up close, Death is potent and syrupy, like overripe fruit, a slow, luxuriant lullaby that might easily have charmed him down into the underworld if his own nature didn’t protect him. Without meaning to, he finds himself petting Toki’s head, pressing their chests together so he can drink in his aura of power. Toki is eager to reciprocate, squeezing his waist in a way that fills Skwisgaar with little, trembly feelings. I knew you were special, Skwisgaar thinks, with a swell of pride. I must have known, when I chose you. It would be one thing to have so thoroughly lost his cool over a mere mortal, he reasons, but if Toki is really a god, like him, then maybe the intense feelings Toki stirs in him are entirely appropriate. “You drives me crazy, you knows dat?” he says, picking fondly at a knot in Toki’s hair. “I used to be deh real cool loners guy, in all my olds bands. Not deh ones caulsink all deh dramas.”

“I don’t believes you,” Toki laughs wetly. “I don’t believes you was ever withouts deh dramas.”

“Well,” says Skwisgaar, “it ams deh truth.” He can feel Toki trying to somehow climb inside of him, trying to compact his power into a dense, vibrating, jet black marble in the pit of his belly, and hide himself away within the glare of the light. “Anyway,” says Skwisgaar, “I ams trying dis thing now where I decides to just, eh, goes wit’ deh flow, as it were.”

“Sos…” Toki squirms meekly against him. “I can— comes back to you in deh futures? Yous gonna helps me keep deh evils down?”

“I wills be making sures you don’t horts nobody,” says Skwisgaar, choosing his words carefully. He’s concocting plans, tremendous, world-historical plans, that involve persuading Toki to embrace his godhood, but the matter demands subtlety. “And, because I ams sos nice, I even permits you to be, eh,” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, “pettings my body like dis. You know, within reasons. And submits myself to all dese crybaby feelinks. But!” he frowns. “Forst, you ams gots to promiske me somethink.” 

“Oh, please,” Toki sighs. “What’s you wants? I gives anyt’ing. I swears on Odin, and Jesus, and Hello Kitties!”

“You hasta promiske me,” Skwisgaar cups his face, looking him in the eye, “dat you will prackstice deh fucking guitar!”


	5. Chapter 5

This dream seems… off. For one thing, it’s way too high-resolution. And it lacks the weightlessness, the time dilation, the impressionistic incompleteness of a dream. It feels a lot like real life, except for the fact that it’s definitely not. 

Skwisgaar finds himself sprawled on the edge of a cliff overlooking a vast green ocean, the flat of his cheek pressed against the warm, dry stone. The endless sky above him is the color of wet cement, hung with neon teal auroras, and the warm wind buffets him from all directions. He braces his hands against the smooth stone, pushing himself upright, and finds that his body is literally glowing in the dark. Huge bird’s wings unfold magnificently from his back, gleaming, cocaine-white feathers being gently ruffled by the ocean air. They’re heavy enough that he stumbles at first, forced to push out his chest and adjust his gait in order to stand. The feeling of having these things attached to him is extremely disorienting. He reaches behind him, prodding along his shoulder blade where they connect, and shivers at the sensation. The hair blowing in and out of his field of vision is almost metallic, like threads of actual gold. The level of granular sensory detail is _ insane_. What kind of dream _ is _ this? He studies his glowing hands, seriously wondering whether Pickles might have slipped him something. 

A wave roars up the side of the cliff, peaking with a spray of pale green foam and depositing a massive fish on the ground in front of him. Skwisgaar reels backward, wings beating reflexively to balance him. It’s not a fish at all, he realizes, but a hulking man, with a powerful, silverblack fish tail that shifts seamlessly into a sturdy pair of human legs as soon as he’s on land.

“Nat’an?!” he blurts. 

“Woah,” says Nathan, startling. “Skwisgaar? What the hell are you doing in my dream?” 

“I don’ts know,” says Skwisgaar, looking him up and down. 

Nathan wrings out the black rope of his hair and lets go of it, so that it pours like ink over his broad shoulders and chest. He’s naked, Skwisgaar notes, trying not to look too obviously at his groin, with dark silver scales creeping across his inner thighs and belly. Delicate gills twitch along the sides of his glistening wet torso, and a jellylike set of inner-lids peels back to reveal his familiar green eyes. He’s kind of beautiful, thinks Skwisgaar, in spite of himself. Remembering his own, angelic appearance, he wonders what Nathan thinks of it. He’s not sure how to feel about looking like something Toki would try to draw with his gel pens. 

“Why ams yousa mormaid man?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” says Nathan, “It’s fucken _ weird_, right?” He looks down at his own body, flexing his hands. “Honestly, I don’t hate it.” He looks back up at Skwisgaar, frowning. “Wings are pretty badass, though,” he says. He shakes his head ruefully. “We’re all gonna make fun of you, because your powers are obviously the least metal, but it’s gonna be because we’re all kinda jealous. You get off super fucken easy in all this. And it’s like- You already won the genetic lottery; S’kinda bullshit that you won the cosmic space powers lottery, too. But whatever, man.”

“What ams you talkings about?” asks Skwisgaar. 

Nathan sighs. “Look, I’ve been to this place like a zillion times.” He points out at the water. “I swim way the fuck down there. Into the deepest, blackest depths. And I commune with these mystical whale prophets. Like. Psychic. Whales. That can tell the future. Don’t look at me like that, I know it’s fucken weird, okay.” 

“Deh futures?” Skwisgaar narrows his eyes. He knows, intuitively, that this isn’t a normal dream, that this is the real Nathan he’s talking to, so he’s somewhat inclined to believe what his bandmate is telling him. But psychic whales? Really?

“Yeah,” Nathan grunts. “There’s this whole prophesy thing. About us. About Dethklok.” He shrugs, wet hair curtaining his face. “I can’t really follow a lot of what they tell me, but. I know it’s really fucken important. I think they want us to, like. Save the world, or some shit. Now, I know what you guys are gonna say. Sounds like a real hassle. I mean, fuck the world, right? But…” He heaves his powerful shoulders, gazing out at the water. “I’ve been over this a lotta times with the whales and. I kinda think— I kinda think we gotta do it.” 

Skwisgaar rubs his chin. “If you knows deh futures, how comes you don’ts tells none of us about it?”

Nathan grumbles, clenching his fists in frustration. “Because,” he says, “I never remember any of this shit when I wake up!”

Skwisgaar takes a step towards him, careful of the weight of his wings. He’s kind of had it at this point with weird shit happening to his body, but then, the others are going to have it worse, apparently. “I thinks I understands,” he says. “Dis songs I’s been writings: It ams parts of deh prophecksies, ja?” 

“Yeah,” says Nathan. “We’ve gotta play it. We’ve gotta do some other shit, too. The whales have shown me like. Images. Giant monsters. Hordes of zombified jackoffs. Crazy hellmouths opening up everywhere. The end of the world. I don’t know. But somehow, Dethklok has gotta, like, save humanity.” This doesn’t sound much like the Nathan Skwisgaar knows, the one who couldn’t possibly care less about humanity. But he _ is _ the real Nathan, turned sober and weary by all that he’s seen, by the insight his new body and its strange senses have granted him. It makes Skwisgaar feel a bit better about the fact that his own transformation has rendered him so soft and weepy. They’re all going to have to go through some version of this. “So anyway,” says Nathan. “I need your help: I’m not gonna remember this conversation when I wake up, but _ you _ might.”

“Why would I remembers your dream better den you does?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, “because your powers have already been activated. Maybe you’re like, more connected to all this shit.” He gestures around them. “Anyway, if you _ do _ remember this, I need you to tell awake-me about it.”

“I shoulds tells you dat yousa mormaid man?” 

“Well, try to make it sound cool,” says Nathan. “So I’ll be, like. On board with it. Tell me I’m like. Fucken death metal Poseidon. Oh! And tell me I can sorta tell the future. I might be into that.” He looks at the ground, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I think you already kinda know this,” he says, with a sort of gruff empathy, “but _ Toki _ is gonna be the hard part.” 

Skwisgaar bites the inside of his cheek, feeling his feathers bristle. Just how much does this version of Nathan _ know?_ “Why’s dat?” he asks cooly. 

“Now that he knows what he is,” says Nathan, “his powers are trying to activate. Like what happened with you. But unlike you, Toki’s fighting it.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, I feel kinda bad for the little guy. This is gonna be fucken weird and uncomfortable for everybody, but. He definitely has it the worst of any of us. His powers are… fucken scary. I mean, totally metal, obviously. But like. I can’t really blame him for trying to resist it. I don’t think I’d want the primordial manifestation of Death running through my body either. It probably feels… awful. Anyway, I’m gonna need you to somehow get him on board with this whole thing. He’s not gonna like it, but he’s gotta accept it. And you’re. You know.” He stage-coughs. “In a better position to convince him than anybody else.” 

A lump has formed in Skwisgaar’s throat. In his enthusiasm for Toki’s specialness, he didn’t stop to consider whether Toki’s powers, even contained and controlled, might cause him harm. “Whens Toki ams, eh, ackstivates…” He swallows. “Ams it goink to horts him?”

Nathan looks grave. “I don’t know,” he says quietly.

“I thoughts you could tells deh futures!”

“Yeah, but I can’t read minds! I don’t know what Future-Toki is gonna _ feel _ like. Actually, you know what…” He pauses, rolling his eyes back in thought. “I think Pickles can read minds.” He points his finger. “Don’t quote me on that.”

Skwisgaar closes his eyes, wings drawing tightly against him. “Dat amn’t no answer for me, Nat’an,” he says. He has promised Toki relief; How can he possibly be asked to lead him into further torment? “I won’ts particskipates in none of dis,” he says fiercely, “unless dere ams a ways for Toki to be alrights.”

“Well, we need him.” Nathan frowns out at the water. “Hold on,” he says. “Let me try to ask the whales.” Translucent membranes slide back over his eyes, turning them milky and strange, and he inhales deeply through his nose. The green waves surge up the vertical cliffside to meet him, frothing about his legs, and Skwisgaar retreats from the edge to avoid getting soaked. The wind rises, whipping through Nathan’s wet hair, swarms of tiny silver fish swirling around his ankles like hundreds of cascading shards of mirror, his gleaming, partially-scaled torso expanding and contracting with each mighty breath. He looks every inch a god— and yet, so poignantly like himself. 

His shoulders fall, as the wind and waves recede from him. “Hmm,” he grunts, turning around to face Skwisgaar again. 

“Sos?” Skwisgaar asks, his heart skipping with fear. 

“They said… it doesn’t have to be bad for him,” says Nathan. “There’s timelines where he can’t handle it, and he freaks out. Where he won’t listen to anybody, or let anybody help him, and it just gets worse and worse because he’s in horrible pain… and it turns him into something _ really _ scary.” He looks Skwisgaar in the eye, with a kind of gentleness Skwisgaar wouldn’t necessarily have credited him with. “But there’s other timelines where he ends up okay. Happy, even. In the end.” 

“Ands how does we know which one ams which?” Skwisgaar asks, his voice creaking. 

“Well,” says Nathan, “we don’t exactly. But I think the main thing is, you know. We’ve gotta keep him from getting stuck in a spiral where he’s, like. Shutting everybody out.” 

Skwisgaar nods darkly, grinding his teeth. “Ja,” he says. “I nots let’s dat happen. I gets him to listens to me. I does whatever it takes. You don’t even hasta worries about it.” 

“Good,” says Nathan. “I know I can, uh…” He looks away, almost bashful. “Count on you, and stuff. Yeah, that’s right,” he growls, defensive. A wall of water rises behind him. “Get used to that sappy friendship shit,” he cries over the mounting roar, “‘cause it’s comin’ for us! It’s comin’ for all five of us, just like the fucken apocalypse!” Before Skwisgaar can say anything to this, the ocean swallows them whole. 

  
  
  
  


The light from the window falls across his eyelids, waking him, and he blinks up at the white ceiling with a quiet groan. He feels sore again, his perpetually-new muscles throbbing with restless energy. He turns over, trying to subdue his uncooperative powers, blankets clinging to his staticky skin, to find that Toki is no longer in his bed. 

Skwisgaar sits up, looking around. No Toki in sight. He huffs aloud, not sure what to do. He’s, what? Worried? Hurt? Both? His head’s in a fog. It’s too early for all these emotions. With a tremor of longing, he remembers what it was like to hold Toki in his arms. He thought he was doing a pretty great job of being comforting and supportive. So, what gives?

Toki’s missing at breakfast, too, like he has been all week. Skwisgaar enters the dining room, heart in his throat, and takes his seat beside Nathan. There’s a huge basket of assorted pastries in front of him, from which the others have already claimed their favorites. Without looking, he grabs some sort of croissant thing. The empty seat to his right sends a prickly feeling along that side of his body.

Was it something he said? Why doesn’t Toki want to be near him right now? He sips his coffee, stomach roiling with anxiety. Fuck, there’s no going back now, is there? He can’t even pretend like his relationship with Toki isn’t one of the most important things in his life. The byzantine layers of self-deception he’s used to hiding behind are just… gone now.

He’s so absorbed in this train of thought, that he doesn’t even notice at first how intensely Nathan is staring at him. “Hey Skwisgaar,” Nathan rumbles. “Umm… Wait a minute.” 

“Ja?” Skwisgaar looks at him, and something passes between them which he can’t put a name to. 

“Why do I feel like… Did I tell you to remind me of something?” Nathan asks. 

“I don’ts know,” says Skwisgaar, bewildered. “I don’t remembers.”

Nathan puts his fist on the table. “Damnit,” he says. “This is gonna bother me all day! What _ was _ it?” He takes a frustrated bite of English muffin, glaring across the dungeon-like dining room in front of him. “I feel like it was something really important.” 

“Ask dah manager,” suggests Pickles. “It’s his jahb tah remember all dhat boring shit so we don’t hafta, right?”

“I guess you’re right,” says Nathan, slathering the second half of his English muffin with apricot jam. 

Skwisgaar frowns, watching a curl of steam rise from his cup. It’s bothering him now, too. He _ was _supposed to remind Nathan of something. “Was its, porhaps, somet’ing to do wit deh albums?” he asks.

“Yeah…” says Nathan, slowing his knife. “Why do I feel like was something about _ Toki’s _ parts on the album?”

“I thought you schaid it wasch schomething important,” Murderface jabs. 

Skwisgaar picks at the croissant, peeling back the delicate, translucent layers one at a time. “Actuallies, euh,” he says quietly, “I’s been workings on somet’ing pretties challengink for him to plays.”

“Dood,” says Pickles, “good luck with dhat. Pretty sure he’s still AWOL.”

“Well, I schaw him thisch morning,” says Murderface. 

Skwisgaar lowers his coffee cup onto its saucer without so much as an audible clink, the virtuosic dexterity and precision of his hands belying the tremors inside of him. “You dids?” he asks.

“Schaid he wasch on hisch way to the schtudio to work on schomething,” says Murderface. “Asch if.”

“Hey maybe he’s gaht a side project,” Pickles laughs. “I bet it’s called, like, Happy… Gumball… Model Train Set… Land.”

“Alright,” says Nathan, “let him dick around in there, then. We don’t have time to record today anyway, we’ve got that meeting about the new merch.”

“You guys, eh, goes ahead wit’ dat,” says Skwisgaar. “I actuallies… gots to talks to Toki abouts dis song I wants him to lorn, sos—”

“Aw, come ahn,” says Pickles. “Don’t get in his face now. He’s, like, goin’ through somethin’.”

“I ams not goink to—”

“Yeah Schkwischgaar,” says Murderface, pointing with a hunting knife covered in raspberry preserves flecked with crumbs of scone. “Don’t be a dick. Let Toki have hisch little deluschionsch about thisch whole ‘Gumball Land’ thing.”

“Dat ams somet’ing Pickle just mades up a seconds ago, sos—”

“Hold on,” says Nathan. He narrows his eyes at Skwisgaar as though straining to detect something, and that weird feeling of wordless understanding passes between them again. “I think… That’s a good idea, Skwisgaar. We’ll worry about the merch; You should go deal with Toki.” He chews cautiously, like he’s not sure what’s moving him to say this. “We’ve got some events coming up, and uh. We’ve all gotta, you know. Be. There. So, tell Toki he’s gotta come back from his little vacation.” 

“Remind him about dhat Death Pancake House grand opening next month,” Pickles offers. “He was real excited about dhat.”

“Yeah,” says Murderface, “and moscht importantly, don’t be a dick and schit all over hisch precschiousch little dreamsch!” He sighs wistfully. “You know, being a great muschic teacher isch all about providing encouragement.”

Skwisgaar finishes his coffee and pushes himself up from the table. “Yeahwow thanks, eugh, Mordorface,” he scoffs. “I keeps dat in mind.” 

He should stay, and take in a lot more calories, if he wants his body to stop aching and go back to feeling all invincible and godlike, but his desire to see Toki immediately overrides everything else. Just the thought of touching him, of holding him again— Fuck, Skwisgaar is _ losing _it. 

The elevator ride to the upper level is interminable. He stares ahead, fingers twitching as he realizes he didn’t even bring the Explorer with him this morning. He steps off the lift and pauses outside the studio, working to sand the desperate edge off his feelings before entering. Toki’s state of mind could still be fragile, he thinks. It won’t do to jump all over him. 

Pressing his ear to the door, he tries to “hear” Toki’s presence; Though of course it isn’t literally a sound, his until-recently human brain still doesn’t know how else to interpret this entirely new genre of sensory input. The dark vibration varies its pitch and frequency in what Skwisgaar can only assume is a response to Toki’s emotions, giving him the handy ability to sort of “hear” what Toki is feeling. Thinking of last night, Skwisgaar remembers that Toki had started to demonstrate the ability to detect _ his _ vibration as well, a prospect he finds quite ominous, if admittedly kind of thrilling. He wonders if Toki analogizes the sensation with music, the way he does, or if he has some other way of interpreting it. He didn’t notice until now just how much he’d been lacking for someone to discuss these things with. 

He enters the studio to find Toki huddled on one end of the sofa, a copy of _ Advanced Guitar Theory and Technique Applied to the Metal and Shred Genres _propped in his lap. His hair is still hopelessly tangled, and even greasier than before, but at least the inflammation in his face has started to go down. “Goods mornings,” he croaks, watching with nervous, red-rimmed eyes as Skwisgaar approaches the sofa and sits down beside him. 

“You lefts,” Skwisgaar says, sounding more accusatory than he means to. It’s not like they had sex or anything— And _ holy shit_, is that thought suddenly consuming. _ Yikes_, is he not gonna get else anything done if he starts thinking about that now. 

“I cames in here earlies to do some pracksticing, like you saids,” says Toki. He puts the book aside, folding his hands. “I didn’t wants to be botherings you.” He smiles weakly. 

Ouch. “Hueh… ahhh…” Skwisgaar slumps. “Who ams eughhh…?” He cocks an eye. “Saying dat yous… eh. Botherings me…?” It occurs to him belatedly that Toki is not privy to all the life-changing epiphanies he’s been having. He’s probably going to have to _ talk _ about them. Like with _ actual words_. Damn. 

Toki lowers his gaze. His lashes are sticking together, and there are little flecks of crusted eye mucous caught in them. He’s calmer now, at least, but he still looks like he needs a hot shower and maybe a teddy bear. “I’s afraid dat you gets sick of me,” he says, “and den when I _ reallies _ needs your help, you won’t wants to helps me no mores.”

“Toki,” says Skwisgaar, “yous killing me wit’ dis.” 

“S-sorry.” 

He sighs. Here goes nothing. “Looks at me,” he says. Toki looks at him, blinking diffidently. “Didn’ts I promiske dat I woulds be dere, no matter what’s happen?” Skwisgaar asks.

Toki nods. “Ja,” he says, brightening. “You really means all dat what you saids?”

“Of course,” says Skwisgaar, breathing faster. “Listens, Toki: I don’t really knows how to—” He squirms, breaking eye contact. “Kchh— Fucks. Oukay.” Admitting all this to himself in the gauzy midst of philosophical repose is one thing; Admitting it out loud is quite another. His head lolls back and forth as he groans up at the ceiling. “Deh truth ams dat I ams maybes capables to be, eh. Feelings certain. T’ings. Abouts you,” he says, opening his hand. 

Toki blinks doeishly. His dry lips part, and he makes a little chirring noise at the back of his throat. “You really cares about me,” he translates. “Gah, I knew it!” he crows, suddenly animated, a huge, goofy grin spreading across his face. “You really does cares abouts me deh whole times!” 

Skwisgaar bows his head, ducking his burning face behind his hair. “Ja, well,” he says softly, quickly growing overwhelmed. Toki’s enthusiasm is both embarrassing, and embarrassingly gratifying. “I tries to hides it befores,” he mutters. 

“I knews it, _ I knew it!_” says Toki, practically vibrating with excitement. “I don’t cares what Pickle says; I likes New Skwisgaar! Even dhough yous a dangerous lunatic whats shoots peoples at randoms.” He cackles. 

“Hey, I ams workings on dat,” says Skwisgaar. “It just, takes a little whiles for me to get used to… deh way I ams now,” he admits. “Sos, I acks a littles bit crazy at forst. But I thinks I ams gettings more deh hang of it.”

Toki stills, frowning. “So den,” he asks, “yous powers really _ does _ makes you acks like dat? How come?”

“I’ms just… different now, I guess,” Skwisgaar says, if possible even more quietly than before, to a spot in the air near Toki’s knee. “I’ms a lot more, eh. Sensitives.” At this point, the blush has definitely reached the tips of his ears. “It ams like, all deh dead layers ams been— _skhhkk shkkks—_scrubs off of me. And everyt’ing underneath ams comings to deh surfaske. It makes it a lot harders to controls my impulsives. And harders to ignores my, eh. My real feelings, I guess.”

“What ams yous real feelings about Toki?” Toki sing-songs. “Tells me about dem.” 

“Pffft—!” Skwisgaar’s head snaps upright. “Whats you want, a fucking sonnet?” Toki just simpers at him expectantly. “Achk—” Skwisgaar hems. But he’s already put this thing in motion. If he wants Toki to trust him and rely on him— and he _ does_, he _ yearns _for it —then he’s going to have to be pretty excruciatingly sincere. “Oukei, fine. Looks:” he says, “I promises I will always be dere. For you. And you can be trusting dat I really means it…? Because? I wants… what ams deh best for you?” 

Toki sways closer, listening hungrily. “Ja?” 

“I wants to gives you…” Skwisgaar gulps, his sinuses burning with the threat of tears. “Everyt’ing in deh worlds,” he says, breathless. “And proteckts you from all dat bad stuff. And sees you being… finally _ safes_, from all dat? And happies? And you knows, flourish-king...?” He startles when Toki’s knuckles skim the back of the hand he’s been using to brace himself on the seat between them. Warm static pours from the point of contact over the rest of his body. “I’s always—” he stammers, watching Toki’s hand. “From deh very beginnings, I’s always felt dis— Dis, I don’t knows. Like I needs to helps you? Becomings like? Deh best you cans be? Because _ you _ makes _me _betters.”

“At playings deh guitar?” asks Toki.

“In everyt’ing,” Skwisgaar whispers, slackening, his head and shoulders bowed. He takes a deep breath, watching the ends of his hair paintbrush his lap. “When wes forst met,” he says, “I was a long times past believings in anybody. I nevers needed nobody— I nevers trusted nobody— I nevers puts my hopes in nobody. But den, all deh sudden, dis crazy bullshits happens to me:” he laughs, tears losing their battle with surface tension and finally spilling down his face. “Dis random kids off deh streets comes to me, talkings about destiny or whatevers, and challenginks me, ands smilings at me likes he knows somet’ing I don’ts. And I’s never been deh same since den.” He finally looks up, blinking, stunned. “I believes in _ you_. Toki, I _ believes _in you.”

Toki’s face is lit with wonder. His fret hand reaches haltingly. “Can I?” he asks. “You said before, I’s alloweds to touch? Can I?” His fingers skim Skwisgaar’s forearm without actually making contact, causing the fine hairs to bristle like a cat’s as Skwisgaar’s skin begins to generate its own field of static. 

Skwisgaar surges forward, kissing him on the mouth. His heart is pounding, little arcs of lightning fizzing through his veins as he pulls Toki against him. Toki seems paralyzed at first, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening, but soon his hands are at the base of Skwisgaar’s skull, stroking the soft underside of his hair. It’s hard to tell whether the noise he’s making when he kisses back is the result of vocalization or the inaudible cosmic music. Toki’s skin is clammy and musky, and he’s quite possibly been wearing these same gross pajamas for what is now eight days, so Skwisgaar isn’t going to call this the most picturesque moment of his life, but it might end up being one of the most memorable. Vibrations being both sounds in the ear, as well as sensations on the skin, Skwisgaar feels some wires in his brain getting crossed as his handy musical analogy begins collapsing in on itself. The solid weight of Toki’s chest pressed against him overlaps with the tingling awareness of Toki’s intangible presence in such a way that it seems for a moment as if their bodies are blurring together. 

Toki breaks the kiss, abruptly burying his face in the join of Skwisgaar’s neck and shoulder. “I’m sorries I saids I hates you,” he chokes. “I gets so jealous of you, I can’ts breathe.” Skwisgaar clasps his back, feeling him crumple further. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Toki’s heavy body sprawls bonelessly on top of him, shaking with sobs. “I’m sorries I saids you don’ts desorves to be specials. I didn’ts mean nonna dat. Yous deh forst porson ever made me feel like I belongs anywhere. Like I’s worth anyt’ing. I could nevers hates you.” He makes a terrible, wounded sound. 

“It’s ohkay,” Skwisgaar says helplessly. “Don’t cries no more.” He rubs Toki’s back, sending him a wave of healing. It’s hard to resist the urge to pour out all his energy at once, but he knows he won’t be much use to Toki if he blacks out from over-exerting himself. 

Toki sits himself back up, his fret hand sliding down to rest over Skwisgaar’s heart. “Dere ams a part of me dat still can’t stands it,” he confesses. “I’s been jealous of you before,” he says, “but _ dis_.” He stares covetously at the center of Skwisgaar’s chest. “I thoughts, dis amn’t just unfairs; It’s _ cruels_.” His hand strokes Skwisgaar’s sternum insistently, stimulating the bright core of power that hums behind the plate of fragile human bone. Skwisgaar shudders, beginning to appreciate just how desperate Toki considers his predicament to be. “But it amn’t your faults I gots dis evil in me,” Toki says miserably. “And beings jealous of you won’t gets it outta me.” His eyelids are pink and swollen again. “I ams gratefuls dat yous dis way,” he says. “It ams a blessing dat deh one I cares about deh most ams safes from deh evils.” His powerful arms squeeze Skwisgaar’s waist, almost knocking the breath out of him, and he nuzzles the side of Skwisgaar’s neck with carnivorous abandon. “All dis week I coulds barely sleeps,” he rasps. “All I coulds sees when I closes my eyes was deh nightsmares. I imagines never beings ables to cares about anyones, ever agains. Never beings ables to holds a livings body withouts dem turnings to dust in my arms. It ams such a reliefs,” he gasps, “to know dat even if I’s a horrible evil demons, dere ams dis… magickals angel-porson I can still hugs and touches and everyt’ing. I can’ts stays jealous, because I’s just so glad it’s you!”

Skwisgaar grips him fiercely, staring into the empty booth. The full existential horror of what Toki has been dealing with is hard for him to accept as real. “Toki, yous not no demons. Fucks dem who tolds you dat,” he says. He kisses the top of Toki’s head, growing pensive. There just _ has _ to be some way to reconcile Toki with what he is, while protecting him from the more nightmarish aspects of it. There’s no reason he can’t stay a sweet little goofball, who just _ happens _ to also be a god of Death… right? 

Toki smiles. “And you makes for a real means, hornies, selfish angel, Skwisgaar,” he says. “But heres we both ams.” He closes his eyes, content to nap on Skwisgaar’s chest.

Skwisgaar’s restless fingers continue to pick at the knots in his hair. At length, he speaks again: “I ams writings a song dat wills be porhaps deh greatest t’ing I has ever written,” he says. “I ams workings on your parts now. It will be exceptionalies difficults to lorns but… I knows dat you can do it.”

“Okei,” Toki laughs, “_now _I’s really suspicious. What’s you done wiffs deh real Skwisgaar?” 

“Hey fucks you, I’s been pourinks my heart out over heres!”

Toki nuzzles him, sighing dreamily. “Dat’s true,” he says. “Yousa real sweetheart all deh sudden. Maybes,” he muses, “wid’ somebody like you, deh Baby Cupids hits you double-hard, because yous been so hards for him to catch in deh forst place. He hads gone crazy chasings after you, like deh Captain in Moby’s Dick wiffs deh whale.”

Skwisgaar jolts. 

“What is it?” asks Toki. 

“Deh whales…” Skwisgaar mutters to himself. He was supposed to remember something about whales. _ Wait… what? _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no affiliation to disclose with L. Herman, the author of _Advanced Guitar Theory and Technique Applied to the Metal and Shred Genres_, but it is a real book which you can buy on Amazon for $16.95.
> 
> Alternatively, you can leave me a comment, which is free.


	6. Chapter 6

By now, the Dethklok fansites are swirling with rumors and speculation; There’s no real consensus, but the extraterrestrial theory has proven surprisingly popular. It’s only a matter of time before news of Skwisgaar’s apotheosis reaches mainstream outlets, and there’s no telling what will happen when it does. 

For his part, Skwisgaar is feeling pretty sanguine about the whole thing. Random internet jackoffs can say whatever they want about him: He has a volatile Death god to placate, an oracular whale-related mystery to solve, and a packed guitar-schedule to stay on top of. 

“Well, you might want to start thinking about what you’re going to say,” Offdensen is telling him. 

“Why does I haves to says anyt’ing?”

Offdensen tries to hand him a manila folder, but he just stares at it, strumming continuously, until the manager gives up and drops it on the conference table with a dry thwack. “You’ll probably be expected to give interviews,” says Offdensen, crossing his arms. “Which have the potential to go very poorly if you’re not prepared for them. You need to develop some talking points.” 

“Oukay,” says Skwisgaar. “How abouts: ‘Fucks you, I’ms a god.’” 

Offdensen looks tired. He pulls a chair out from the table and sits down. “Skwisgaar,” he says, steepling his hands, “how do you think the general public is going to react to the news that you have the ability to bring dead people back to life?”

Skwisgaar exhales through his nose, sinking petulantly in his chair. “I don’ts really sees how it consorns dem,” he says. “I uses my powers responskibly. I amn’t goings to, eugh, resurrects Hitlers or anyt’ing like dat.” 

The manager will have to concede that Skwisgaar has been on his best behavior: For the past six weeks, with few interruptions, he’s done nothing but eat, sleep, practice the guitar, babysit Toki, and make Toki practice the guitar. He hasn’t timed himself scientifically, but he feels like he’s already getting faster. And beyond that, what business is it of anyone’s what he’s been up to? What, besides flawless speed-picking, can the public want from him?

“That’s not the point,” says Offdensen. “Your mere existence is going to shatter a lot of people’s worldviews. They might not react very well when they learn what you can do; Or worse, they might start making demands of you.”

Skwisgaar rolls his eyes. “Whats, like, dey tries to makes me saves deh littles kids from deh kancers?” 

“Yes. Exactly. What are you going to say to someone who asks you to do that?” 

He strums faster, dread creeping over him as he envisions a groaning horde of lepers descending upon him and tearing him apart. “No,” he says icily. “Dhey dies when deh Norns has fated for dem to dies.”

Offdensen cocks an eyebrow. “That… actually sounds like a plausible approach,” he says stroking his chin. “Maybe people will buy that you can only act according to some obscure mythological rules. We don’t want them to think you’re the one being cruel and arbitrary.” He watches Skwisgaar’s flying fingers, lost in thought for a moment. “You have to understand,” he says, “the fact that you can heal virtually any ailment, up to and including death, is a very dangerous thing for the public to know. You have something that millions of people desperately want. Withholding it from them without a satisfying explanation could cause serious societal unrest- Which could be very bad for our brand.”

Skwisgaar nods his understanding, staring past Offdensen’s shoulder. He can only wonder what the revelation of Toki’s true nature would do to the brand, but of course, Offdensen doesn’t know about that. “Fines,” he sighs. “I tells deh medias whatever you wants, oukay? I amn’t horting no regular idiots. I just wants to works on my musics in peace. Ams dat unreasonables?”

“No,” says Offdensen. “It’s not… unreasonable.” He flips open the manila folder, scanning its contents, before closing it again. Skwisgaar wouldn’t mind Offdensen’s presence at all, if he weren’t always there to be a hardass or deliver bad news. His steady lifeforce, which suggests mental acuity and good health, is actually kind of pleasant and reassuring to be around. “I’m glad you seem to be… adjusting so well,” says Offdensen. He looks up, like he wants to say something more, but then doesn’t, which is Skwisgaar’s cue that the meeting is over, and that he and his guitar can leave. 

The fans, the media, the demands of the label- all of these seem infinitely far away to Skwisgaar, now that he can slip between atoms and peer into souls. New doubts plague him: There are probably all kinds of philosophers and scientists who would kill for even a brief glimpse of what his senses show him, but he’s not a great thinker, or even a good person, and he’s beginning to feel increasingly out of his depth. He likes his semi-divine body, especially now that he’s taking good care of it, but he doesn’t totally trust its intentions. He’s troubled by the creeping sense that someone or something has plans for him. And what the fuck do _ whales _ have to do with any of it? For now, working on the album and keeping an eye on Toki are about as much responsibility as he’s willing to assume. 

  
  
  


The Death Pancake House Grand Opening is Dethklok’s first major public appearance since shit got all cosmic, and it goes pretty smoothly. Nathan does the ribbon-cutting, and they play a short set, as thousands of fans line up for a chance to try the most metal pancakes the world has ever tasted. Slowly rotating behind the stage is a giant crystal hourglass, containing enough Grade A Quebec maple syrup to fill an Olympic swimming pool. The band are in high spirits, and the pancakes, everyone agrees, are transcendent. 

Whatever concerns may have existed about Skwisgaar’s readiness to resume performing live, he figures this will put them to rest. He valiantly maintains his composure amid the sweaty orgy of regular-jackoff souls around them, and though his chest hums and his fingers spark as he throws himself into the music, he manages not to cry. Maybe it’s just the fact that he can sense the quivering thread of light tethering each of them to their gradually decaying mortal bodies, but for some reason he feels a little warmer towards the audience than usual. The way they lose their minds at the end of every song is kind of… exciting and endearing. He’d become inured to this level of attention and worship, to the point where he only really noticed when it was missing. But by the time Dethlok exits the stage to roaring applause, he’s surprised by a kind of giddy lightness in his heart.

“D’you know dhat dah Quebec Maple Syrup Federation is dah most concentrated commodity cartel in dah world?” Pickles reads off a brochure, as they lounge backstage afterwards.

“No way,” says Murderface. “How can that posschibly be true?”

“Dood,” says Pickles, through a mouthful of marshmallow crepe. “Dhis says dhat Quebec controls almost eighty-percent of dah global maple syrup market. Dhat’s more marketshare dhen fucken OPEC has in oil.”

“I fucked a Quebecois girl, once,” says Nathan, reaching for the liquid nitrogen whipped cream canister to top off his monstrous pile of pancakes and blueberry compote. “She had hairy pits, just like a French girl,” he muses.

“That’sch dischguschting,” says Murderface, stabbing his candied-pecan pancake with a fork. “I don’t wanna think about a chick’sch hairy pitsch while I’m _ eating_.”

Nathan shrugs. “I won’t lie,” he says, talking with his mouth full. “I thought it was kinda hot.”

“Yeah, Murderface,” Pickles laughs. “Yer just uncultured. Dhat’s like, a Continen’al thing. Right, Skwisgaar?”

“Euh, ja,” says Skwisgaar absently, as he stands at the table, fixing himself another plate. “Gotsta loves a furry lady.” The high he was feeling earlier begins to recede as he notices that Toki has disappeared on them. “Hey, where ams, uh-”

“Godamnit,” says Nathan, stamping his foot. “These are gonna ruin pancakes for me. ‘The fuck is in this shit, molly?” 

“I know, right!” says Pickles. “Dhey’re so freakin’ good. How much are we payin’ dhat Jacques-Cousteau guy, again? I mean, what dah fuck- Why can’t he serve us shit like dhis?” 

Skwisgaar turns around, growing anxious. Toki has been coming to practice and meals again, and he was fine onstage today, but he’s still been spending an inordinate amount of time alone in his room, or otherwise avoiding the rest of the band. The times Skwisgaar has gotten him by himself over the past six weeks have been intense and strange, full of wordless touching and stifled tears. Toki always seems so relieved and grateful to accept whatever comfort Skwisgaar offers him, but he never seeks it out himself. It’s as if he’s terrified of rejection.

With this troubling thought, Skwisgaar exits the lounge, taking his stack of frosted-flakes pancakes with him. This won’t be the first conversation in the past few weeks he’s abruptly walked out on in order to go check on Toki, but if the rest of his bandmates have noticed this behavior, they haven’t mentioned it; And even if they _ do _ start giving him a hard time about it, it’s basically beyond his control at this point. The need to make sure Toki’s alright is a kind of mania that drowns out everything else.

A pair of Klokateers file past him down the hallway, carrying amps and reels of cable as he tries a series of doors. Sure enough, Toki is standing at the window in one of the empty control booths, observing the cleanup of the usual carnage. “Ohai,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as Skwisgaar enters the room. On the lawn below, fans covered in third-degree maple syrup burns are being carted away on stretchers. At least one unfortunate dildo looks to have been bisected by a giant shard of fallen crystal, his two exsanguinated halves lying several feet apart from each other in the grass.

“Whats ehh…” Skwisgaar approaches. He scrunches one eye. “Euhh. Whats you ams up to… in heres?”

Toki doesn’t answer, staring forlornly out the window. “Whys dis always happens?” he sighs.

Skwisgaar shrugs, neatly cutting through several layers of pancake with the side of his fork. “We ams unfortunatelies plagued by technicals difficulties,” he says. “But what ams you goink to do?” he asks, chewing. Outside the window, threads of fate continue to snap. “Dat ams euughh… shows business.” 

Toki’s frown deepens. “Do you thinks it coulds have anyt’ing to do wit’ me?” he asks.

“Nooo…” Skwisgaar shakes his head. Although, it _ would _explain a lot. “Come on Toki, don’ts worries about dat. Haves some pancake.” He lifts a forkful to Toki’s lips. 

“I tries not to worries, but it ams real hard not to,” says Toki. “Ams dhose corn flakes in dere?” he exclaims. “Wowee, dat’s tasty.”

“Ja, dems sugars-frosted flakes.”

“Dhey wasn’t kidding abouts dese pancake,” he says, accepting a second bite. “Fucks me, dese mights posskibly be betters den Jean-Pierre’s pancake.” 

“Sees?” says Skwisgaar. “Don’ts be moping out heres. Comes back in and pals around.”

Toki slumps, looking back out at the dead and dying fans. “I feels bad for dem,” he says.

“Dhey all signs deh waiver,” Skwisgaar reminds him, making a dismissive gesture with his fork. “Dhey knows what can happens to dem, and dhey still wants to comes to our shows anyways.” He watches as one guy, who has succumbed to his injures, is transferred from a stretcher to a body bag. “Dhey’s so fanaticals, I doubts dhey even regrets it,” he says, but Toki doesn’t seem placated by this. 

Skwisgaar prickles with frustration. These interactions keep following more or less the same pattern: He tries to be reassuring, but he doesn’t know what to say, and what he says never seems to help. Words having failed him, he offers Toki his body, which _ always _ seems to help. Toki touches him, always cautious at first, before embracing him like a beam of driftwood in a shipwreck. Sometimes Toki cries, sometimes there’s kissing, but he’s always in a much better mood afterwards. He’s obviously drawing some sort of intense relief from Skwisgaar’s physical touch itself, but seems fearful and ashamed of asking for it directly. Being far more physically than verbally demonstrative, Skwisgaar is all too happy to oblige him. It’s just that, temporarily alleviating Toki’s suffering does nothing to quiet the voice in Skwisgaar’s head that’s always screaming at him to somehow fix it. He lowers his fork. “Hey dere,” he says. “We don’ts, ehh… even knows for sures dat dis is having anyt’ing to do wit’ you.” 

“I’s been surrounded by deaths my whole lifes,” says Toki. “It ams hards not to sees deh connections.” He turns away from the window, facing Skwisgaar. “I has been thinkings to myself, how comes nothing horribles haves happen to Nat’an, or Moidaface, or Pickle? Dhey’s known me all dis times, and dhey’s been pretty much ohkay.” He smiles gravely. “I think it ams because dhey’s _ yous _friends too,” he says. “Yous probably been protectings dem from me all alongs, withouts even knowings it.” He glances back over his shoulder. “But dese people amn’t safes from me, because you don’ts gives a shit about dem.” 

“Dat’s true,” says Skwisgaar, tapping the fork against his lips. “I really dont’s gives a shit about dem.”

“Well… maybe you shoulds?” says Toki. He gives Skwisgaar a pleading look. “Doesn’t deh gods have a responskibilities to mortals? Especiallies dese ones, who already warships you and everyt’ing?”

Skwisgaar looks between the glass and Toki with a scornful hiss. “Silly Toki,” he says. He sets his plate and fork down next to one of the control panels and stands up straight. “I ams like deh olds fashions pagan-type gods, whats holds deh mortals in abjects contempts.”

Toki lays a warm hand over Skwisgaar’s heart. “I knows,” he says softly, before rolling forward on tiptoe to give Skwisgaar a maple syrup-flavored kiss. “I knows what you ams.”

Skwisgaar’s throat tightens with a little _hng _of surprise as Toki’s mustache tickles his chin. This is the first time Toki has taken the initiative of kissing him first, and like several things Toki’s done lately, it makes him go all trembly inside. “Anyways,” he says. “I don’ts think it ams dat simples.” He smooths Toki’s hair with his palm. “Looks at dat clowns guy.” he says. “You likes him, and I fucking hates him, and somehow he ams still alives. So dere amn’t necessarily an exacts ones-to-ones correlations.”

“Ja, dat’s true,” says Toki. This seems to cheer him up a bit. “Maybe yous right.” His gaze flickers, returning to Skwisgaar’s mouth. Skwisgaar stands still, his posture neutral, waiting for Toki to take whatever it is he needs. There’s a timidity to these interactions, as if both of them are afraid of puncturing the dreamlike bubble in which they seem to take place. Toki rests his fingertips against Skwisgaar’s exposed shoulders before craning to kiss him again. 

“You knows, you cans, uh…” Skwisgaar tries to say. Their mouths are centimeters apart. “Whenever yous wanting dis, you cans just-” 

They separate abruptly, at the sound of someone opening the door. “Hey, you guys.” Nathan pokes his head into the room. “The bus is all packed up,” he says. “We’re heading over to the afterparty.”

They follow him into the hallway and out of the building, hearts pounding, unable to look at each other for more than a second. It’s always jarring when the bubble pops, and they find themselves back in real life. 

As everyone is climbing onto the Dethbus, Nathan takes Skwisgaar aside. “Look,” he says, “it’s fine if you two were gettin’ all… _ European _ in there, okay?”

“Pfft. Whats?” Skwisgaar balks.

“You _ know _ what I mean,” says Nathan. He rubs the back of his neck. “We make jokes and stuff, but nobody really gives a shit. Well, okay, maybe Murderface does. But he’ll get over it.”

Skwisgaar narrows his eyes. “What ams you talkink abouts?” 

“I'm not _ that _dumb,” says Nathan. “I know you two’ve been sneakin’ around, and I don’t want it to turn into a whole… weird. Fucken. Thing. Okay? So, I’m sayin’ something about it now: As long as it doesn’t interfere with the band, it’s fine. Like. We’re still gonna make funna you because, you know. Come on. But it’s actually fine. There,” he says, visibly relaxing. He nods to himself and crosses his arms. “I feel better having said that.” 

Skwisgaar gapes at him. It takes him a moment to process what is being said. “You… Whats?” he sputters. 

He does the math: Nathan knows Skwisgaar has had sex with men before, but just sex. Not like, gay shit. He wouldn’t normally bring it up, except that it’s Toki. Skwisgaar _ hasn’t _ had sex with Toki, but he’s pretty sure they will. And when they do, it won’t be just sex, because it’s Toki. Ergo, Nathan is suggesting that this will constitute gay shit. 

Skwisgaar freezes in the middle of the parking lot. His skin is burning. _ Is _ he gay for Toki?! Is _ that _ what this is? Should he be trying to make Toki his _ boyfriend _ or something? His stomach plunges. As absurd as that sounds, the idea of not being together on some sort of permanent basis is unthinkable.

“Okay…” says Nathan, “I may have severely misread the situation. Shit.” He looks from the idling Dethbus to the tops of his boots. “This is awkward.” 

Skwisgaar clears his throat. “Nnnoo, uh,” he says. “Wells. Hmm.” He feels himself flush all the way to his hairline. “You didn’ts.”

Nathan peers at him, suspicious. “Aw fuck, don’t tell me it’s ‘complicated,’” he says. “I don’t need that.” He points at Skwisgaar, laying down the law. “No weird bullshit in my band! Figure it out! It’s fine if you and Toki wanna finally make your shit official. It might even make things easier. Just don’t be fucken weird about it!”

Skwisgaar nods once, stunned. “Ohkay,” he says. And they board the bus, like that conversation didn’t just happen. 

  
  
  


It is with all these weighty matters in mind that Skwisgaar makes his triumphant return to regularly fucking groupies. 

Admittedly, it takes him a few tries to get the hang of it again. Skin-to-skin contact proves too overwhelming at first, in part because his body is simply more sensitive to touch, but also because of the way his powers respond to his sex-partner’s lifeforce throbbing against him. Fortunately, a kindly GMILF by the name of Mabel is there to talk him through the uncontrollable trembling and premature ejaculation phase. He finds he can get himself ready again almost immediately, which mitigates some of the embarrassment, and also gives him plenty of chances to practice. 

“You’ll do fine,” says Mabel. “Do you know how many men don’t even _ try _to satisfy a lady?” She combs his hair away from his lightly perspiring forehead with her fingers. “Some of us put up with it our whole lives. We settle for brutes with bad breath, who can’t even get us off. You’re doing God’s work, honey.” 

He lays his head on her bosom, listening to her heart. “Yous probably noticed dat I’s differents from deh last times yous seen me.”

“I thought it might be rude to ask,” she says.

He closes his eyes, savoring the touch of her waning lifeforce. There is something wonderfully poignant about old ladies, he has always thought. “Can I tells you somet’ing fucking crazy, Mabels?” 

“Sure thing,” she says.

“I’ms a fertility god.”

“I believe it,” she laughs.

“No, I means reallies, I literally ams. Dat ams why I seems differents. My body haves been transformed inzto deh body of a literals lifes-giving god. I t’rows lightnink bolts, I raises deh dead,” he yawns. “Deh whole thing. I guess yous not on deh internets.” 

“Wow,” she says. “That _ is _ crazy.”

A man who so embodies the phrase “practice makes perfect” that they should put it on his gravestone, Skwisgaar wastes no time in disciplining himself, and getting good at this again. When it comes to pleasing the ladies, he has always held himself to an exacting standard, but now he’s really determined to wow them. It ought to be, quite literally, a religious experience. 

Soon, he’s back in his element- Maybe more in it than ever. Groupies being awed by him is hardly new, but this is a little more than that. The subtle change in his appearance, and the supernatural hum he emits are hard to notice on stage, or from the television; But up close, they are hard to miss. Women’s eyes widen when he strips for them, revealing his flawless, almost-glowing skin. They gasp when he touches them, his current running through them, making the hairs on the backs of their arms stand on end. “What _ are _ you?” some of them ask, afterwards. “How did you _ do _that?” He just chuckles, reclining luxuriantly, and letting them play with his hair. He is literally made for this. 

He’s never understood some men’s violent hatred of women- the desire to subjugate them, the jealous inability to let them have their secrets. He’s never claimed to understand women, but he’s always respected the mystery. He enjoys them, and they enjoy him, so there’s no real need for them to understand each other. 

Sex satisfies him in new ways. He is drawn to the tenuous light of mortal bodies, the cycle of generation and decay, of women at all stages of their reproductive lives. Life is a form of hysteria, clawing itself up out of an otherwise dark and quiet universe- seething, bursting, desperate, ugly, random multiplication. Kicking and screaming its way across the void in its frantic, futile flight from Death. 

In the arms of mortal women, he knows what it is to be a god- In a world full of aging and sickness, he is a being of such unspeakable gilded decadence, such endless hunger, and overflowing fecundity, and entropic, wasteful, generous passion. There is an aloofness, almost a formality to the way they approach him; He feels a great affinity towards these women, as a patron deity to his supplicants, but he can never truly love or be loved by them, because he is rendered grotesque in his unnatural beauty and power. 

There’s one woman in particular who helps him to see all of this. She approaches him at a backstage meet-and-greet. Professionally-dressed, mid to late thirties. She doesn’t strike him as a typical death metal fan, but as Offdensen is fond of saying, Dethklok has more crossover appeal than ever. 

He tries to be gentle with her, because she seems so nervous. She buries her hands in his hair, her orgasm making her lifeforce shudder in a way that he has come to relish, and he finishes a moment later, sparks fizzing across his skin. 

“Oh my god,” she says, climbing off of him. “Was that-?” He looks up and she’s kneeling on the mattress, a hand clapped over her mouth. “Was that it?” she asks. “Did it work?” 

Skwisgaar props himself on his elbows, frowning at her. “Eh? Dids whats wark?” He sits up. “Yous oukay dere?” 

“Oh my god,” she gasps. She lays her fingertips against the crook of his elbow, lightly tracing the veins of his inner arm, before clasping his hand. “I think I felt it!” she says. “It’s real, isn’t it?!” Her eyes shine with tears, but she doesn’t let them fall. Skwisgaar tries squeezing her hand, and this seems to prompt her. “I’ve been trying for years,” she says, “to have a baby. I’ve tried everything. And now, the doctors say it’s never going to happen. So, I’ve gotten desperate.” She lets go of his hand, pressing both palms into her eyes. “I can’t believe I really did this,” she says. “It’s so crazy.” She laughs, tears streaming down her face. 

Skwisgaar blinks at her, feeling kind of uncomfortable. A previous version of him would have had her removed, because people crying in front of him makes him anxious. “Hey dere,” he says. “Eugh… ‘Phoebe,’ rights?” She nods. “Heeeyyy deeere Phoebe!” he says, scrunching one eye shut. “Yousa champion! Don’ts cries!” 

“My sister talked me into it,” she says. “She’s a huge fan of yours, and when she won a backstage pass in one of those online raffles, she gave it to me. I thought, why not? At this point, what do I have to lose?” She stifles a sob. “There are women who say having sex with you healed them.” 

“Oh, ja?” He shrugs, amused. “I guess when I comes I am, eh, losings temporarily control of my powers.” Reclining again on his elbows, he tilts his head lazily, letting his hair pour to one side. 

She covers her mouth again. “Your…? Your ‘powers?’” she asks. “So, you really _ can_-?”

“Mmm, ja,” he says. “Dat’s right.” 

“Did- did you-? Am I?”

He gives her lifeforce a diagnostic nudge. “Yous all good,” he says. “Shouldn’ts, euh… haves no problems poppings out a tops quality baby dere.” 

The whole time she’s getting dressed and grabbing her things, she’s crying and thanking him profusely. Skwisgaar watches her in silence, trying to figure out what he’s feeling. Distantly, he remembers something from one of his history classes in school: In Roman times, women who were trying to get pregnant would leave votive offerings for the gods in the form of little terracotta uteruses. He remembers some of his male classmates laughing about this, but even as a boy, he could never really understand the disgust and ridicule people often expressed towards women’s reproductive anatomy. Maybe this is what Toki meant, about his responsibility to mortals.

“Hey, Phoebe,” he says, as she’s turning to go. 

“What is it?” she murmurs, reddened eyes round with awe, and gratitude, and fear, twisting her coat in her hands. 

“I bets yous gonna be a great moms.”

  
  
  
  


The second time around, Toki’s still there in the morning. 

Skwisgaar wakes to the feeling of mustache hairs tickling his chest. “Yous skin ams so _ smooths_,” Toki marvels. “Likes a babies.” He nuzzles his face against Skwisgaar’s sternum, inhaling deeply through his nose. His calloused fingers explore Skwisgaar’s body, fascinated by the satiny texture. 

“Pffff.” Skwisgaar’s head lolls one way on the pillow, then the other. “_Yous _ a baby, Toki,” he manages, though his body is blushing all over from the attention.

“Whats does it feels like?” Toki asks, after a while.

“What does you means?”

“Your body,” he says. “Does you still feels… humans?”

Skwisgaar pauses, hyper-aware of Toki’s dark heartbeat thrumming against him. “Ehh. Sort ofs,” he says, a bit shy of Toki’s probing. “I don’ts know.”

“In deh Bibles,” says Toki growing intense, “it say dat angels ams made of deh lights. Dhey don’ts haves sinful flesh-bodies likes deh humans. Does your body feels animals, likes deh humans? Or magickals likes deh angels?”

“Boths, I guess,” Skwisgaar breathes. The combination of this line of questioning with Toki’s fervent petting is making his brain fog up like a steamed mirror. 

Toki noses his throat, inhaling the scent of his skin. “You haves a sinful flesh-body, but it ams imbued withs deh light,” he pronounces.

“I guess sos.”

“It’s so beautifuls,” he sighs. “Deh Bibles don’ts haves t’ings like you in it.” He moves his mouth to just below Skwisgaar’s collar bone, not kissing really, but stroking the skin with his lips. “_In the Bible, the flesh is evil,_” he murmurs. “_It can never be good and pure, like yours is._”

Skwisgaar hums to himself, considering this. “_Remember how you said you always sort of sensed what was inside of you, but you were afraid of it, so you tried to pretend it wasn’t there?_” he asks. Toki looks up from snuggling long enough to give Skwisgaar a hesitant nod. “_I was afraid, too,” _ says Skwisgaar_. _ “_For most of my life, I’ve been trying to run away from what I really am._” 

Toki frowns, growing distressed. “_What?_” He shakes his head. “_But why? You’re… good!_” he protests. “_What you are is so good! How could you have been afraid of it?_”

Skwisgaar stills, searching for the right words. “_You know how, my_ _mother..._” he tries to say. “_She wasn’t a great mom._”

“_Did she hurt you?”_ Toki looks stricken. 

Their eyes meet, and Skwisgaar immediately feels ashamed for even bringing it up. “_No, I mean, not like…_” 

“_Not like _ my _ parents hurt _ me_._” Toki finishes.

“_No._”

Toki looks at him for a moment. “_But she _ did _ hurt you._”

“_She just… couldn’t take care of herself,_” says Skwisgaar. “_So I had to take care of both of us._” He finds himself studying Toki’s musculature as if he intends to draw it, unable to look at his face. “_She got involved with a lot of men who hurt her. And she let me defend her from them. From these _grown_ men,_” he continues, hearing himself getting angry. “_She let me do things for her that no kid should ever fucking have to do for an adult,_” he says. Toki’s hand is resting at his waist, his broad thumb sweeping again and again over the last of Skwisgaar’s ribs. “_I used to have a scar_…” says Skwisgaar. He reaches behind his ear. “_It’s gone now,_” he mutters. “_My powers got rid of it. It was pretty long, but it was mostly under my hair. You could only see, like, the end of it,_” he says, tracing the side of his neck. “_When I was fourteen, this guy held my head in the doorframe, and slammed the bathroom door on it. Serveta took me to the emergency room to get staples. And she was crying the whole time, telling me how brave I was, and how much she loved me. She said she loved me, but she never did anything to protect me from these violent, horny men. That wasn’t even the last time she brought that guy home._” He plays with the ends of Toki’s hair. Anger is useless, now. “_I’m not saying they _molested_ me or anything, but… some of them messed with me. Touched me, or said things about the way I looked. They made me feel gross. I don’t know._” He shakes his head. “_I don’t know._”

Toki’s thumb stops. “_I’m sorry._”

“_I always felt like I had to save her,_” says Skwisgaar_. _“_No matter how scared I was, no matter how much I didn’t want to, I always had to put her first. It was like… I couldn’t help it. She was my mom, and I loved her. And this thing, deep inside of me, this- _Light, _if that’s what you want to call it_. _It wouldn’t let me abandon her. I felt… trapped by it._” His eyes track the movement of blue shadows over the ridges of Toki’s belly. This is easier to talk about than he thought it would be. The familiarity between them makes it feel safe, natural. Toki’s warm weight in his bed feels like it’s always belonged here. “_As I got older, I started to really hate her,_” says Skwisgaar_. _“_Until one day, it was like I hated her so much, that it broke the spell, or something. I still had these… urges, but I realized I could ignore them. Suddenly, I didn’t have to put anyone else first anymore. I didn’t owe anyone anything. I left home, got into the Göteborg music scene, and sort of reinvented myself. I couldn’t completely get rid of that part of myself, but I learned how to compartmentalize it. And I was happy, there._ _I realized I was insanely talented and good-looking, and could get away with treating everyone around me like garbage, and I guess… that felt like freedom._”

Toki squeezes his waist. “_I always heard cool things about the metal scene in Göteborg,_” he says. “_But I had no idea it was where Skwisgaar became Skwisgaar._” He hums fondly. “_A historic site._” 

Skwisgaar laughs. 

Toki’s face changes. “_I’m sorry your mom wasn’t a good mom,_” he says sadly. He kisses the part of Skwisgaar’s hair. 

“_Yeah_,” says Skwisgaar. “_But you know what?_”

“_What?_” asks Toki. 

“_You and me? We’re gonna be alright._” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment, and we'll be friends forever.


	7. Chapter 7

They are no longer comfortably ahead of schedule. Nathan has deleted over a hundred hours of recordings. A leaning tower of empty paper coffee cups has sprung up next to Abigail’s elbow. Skwisgaar has been hovering behind her all morning, unable to restrain his tendency to play back-seat producer. Tensions are high. 

“Okay Toki, that was good,” Abigail says into the talkback mic. She gives him a thin smile and jots something down on her yellow legal pad. “Why don’t we all take five, and uh-”

“Does it agains,” Skwisgaar snaps. “You palm-mutes too hards.”

“I’ms doings deh best I cans!” says Toki.

“No yous nots. Does it agains.”

Toki looks down, tilting the edge of his hand between pickup and bridge. “How many times does we gots to go t’rough dis?” he asks, miserably.

Bracing his palms against the console, Skwisgaar hunches over and yells into the talkback mic. “Until you gets it right! Does it agains!” He is buzzing with excitement. If not for the glass separating them, he might not be able to stop himself from kissing Toki right here in the studio, in front of everyone. You’re so close, he thinks. Toki, you can do this, you’re so close. 

Abigail flips off the talkback mic and swivels her chair ninety degrees. “We’ve been at this for hours,” she says, scratching a grain of sleep from the corner of her eye with a manicured forefinger. “Will you lay off him? It sounds fine.” 

“Fines ams dildos,” says Skwisgaar. “Its needs to be porfect.”

“Why does it matter?” Pickles groans from the sofa. “Yer just gonna record over ‘im anyway.” 

Skwisgaar’s stomach clenches. He glances over his shoulder. “No I’ms not.” He reaches over Abigail’s arm, flipping on the talkback mic. “Toki,” he says, “Does it agains.” 

“Why you hads to writes it so complicateds?” Toki hangs his head. “Dis ams deh easy parts, I can’ts even does dis rights. Hows I s’posed to plays deh rest of it?” 

“Yous overthinkings it,” says Skwisgaar. “Don'ts thinks about it, just plays it!”

Toki’s shoulders rise and fall. When he lifts his head, his face is blank. 

“Okay,” says Abigail. “Ready?” 

He adjusts his stance, and takes it from the top, careful this time not to mute the strings too hard. 

And all of a sudden, he’s nailing it. This is the most difficult passage Skwisgaar has ever heard him attempt, and he’s nailing it to the fucking cross. Nathan and Pickles sit up straight on the sofa. The room is frozen with suspense as the darkest, blackest, most glorious metal pours from Toki’s fingertips, his entire body resonating with the honey-rich sound of Death. 

“Holy shit,” says Nathan, impressed. 

Skwisgaar sways towards the glass, his heart in his throat. His eyes slip shut, sensations overwhelming him, tears coming before he can even think about stopping them. Toki is _ really doing it. _The passage builds towards its climax, every chord crisp and flawlessly articulated, until the air is charged with that eerie, seductive energy, which snatches souls into the void. 

All that buildup, and no satisfaction. Toki stops, his Flying V giving an abortive screech. “I can’ts does dis,” he says. The air shudders, the darkness receding from every corner of the studio and collapsing back into his body. He emerges from the booth, lifting the guitar strap over his head, and hurries out of the studio without saying another word.

Skwisgaar moves instinctively to follow Toki, but Abigail blocks him, waving her legal pad in front of his belly. “Don’t,” she says. “Let him go.” 

“Ttsssh,” Skwisgaar scowls at her, but he sits down in the second swivel chair in front of the console. He doesn’t wipe his eyes, because if he doesn’t wipe his eyes, the tears don’t count. 

“Alright,” says Abigail. “I think that’s gonna be it for today.” She gets up, collecting her papers. “I don’t do intra-band drama. Let me know when it’s over.” 

Nathan stands, stretching his back. He looks at Skwisgaar. “What did we talk about?” he grumbles. “This better not be some fucken. Thing.” He twists his spine one way, then the other, with an audible crack. “That’s all I’m gonna say,” he points, following Abigail out of the studio. 

“Dood,” says Pickles, as soon as they’re gone. “Are you cryin’?”

“No,” Skwisgaar huffs, draping his forearms over his thighs.

“Yeah ya are. I can see it, I’m lookin’ right at you.”

“Den whys you aks me dat?!” he yells.

Pickles sighs. “C’mon, man,” he says. “I can’t watch ya do dis t’yerself anymore.” He leans back on the sofa, pulling a joint from his pocket and deftly twirling it between his fingers.

Skwisgaar peers at the levels on Toki’s unfinished track. “Whats I’m doings?” he asks.

“Stayin’ sober!” Pickles yelps. “Lookit yerself! Yer a wreck! Cryin’ in the studio.” He shakes his head ruefully, lighting the joint. “_Dood,_” he says, “you’ve _ gotta _get high with me.”

Skwisgaar spins his chair to face the sofa, giving Pickles a raised-eyebrow. He doesn’t really feel like explaining that just _ existing _in this body feels like being constantly hopped up on some touchy-feely party drug. “We’s already been over dis,” he says, flicking a speck of dust from one of the armrests. “I gots to observes a very spartans lifestyles in orders to, eugh, furthers my cultivations as a transkendentals cosmick being.” 

“Fer what?” Pickles asks. “Dis ain’t dah twelve labors of Achilles or whatever. All you do is fuck groupies an’ play dah guitar.”

“Deh twelfths labors of Horkules, Pickle. But I forgives yous weak grasps of deh classical canons, because you lacks deh benefit of superiors Scandinavians edzuckations.”

“Dood, shut dah fuck up- You dropped outta high school to fuck groupies an’ play dah guitar!”

Skwisgaar drums his fingers on the armrests, deliberating. He reaches for Toki’s Flying V, holding it still against his belly for a moment, before starting to pluck at it. Does the instrument savor of Toki’s residual aura? “Whats ams in dat?” he asks.

Having the big sofa all to himself, Pickles lulls in the middle of it, puffing away- he is too diminutive to sprawl. “Yanno,” he says, “a little bitta dis, a little bitta dhat.” He extends his arm, offering Skwisgaar a hit. “Come ahhnnn,” he says. “Get fucked up with me. Ya can always brood about yer drama wit’ Toki later. It’ll still be dere when ya come down, I prahmise.”

Skwisgaar relents. As they pass the joint back and forth, talking about nothing of substance, the studio around them gradually begins to blur.

“I gotta good feelin’ about dis album we’re workin’ on here,” Pickles is saying. “I feel like it’s gonna be, ya know. Ya know what I mean? It’s gonna be like, an event. A real… historical… Ya know?”

“Ja,” Skwisgaar nods. 

“Like, we’re on the verge of… Ya know?”

“Ja, we’s close…” His limbs are sluggish and the Flying V is a heavy weight in his lap. He doesn’t know how drugs are likely to interact with his demigod biology- but he figures he’s still human enough to eat, and sleep, and fuck, so how different can it be? He can feel his heart rate slowing, his muscles slackening, the hum in his muscles growing more subdued. “We’s close to deh ends,” he says. 

The studio dissolves into warm sand. Skwisgaar feels himself sink through the swivel chair, through the floor, and into an ocean of cozy black static. 

It’s peaceful at first, but as he sinks further and further, the pressure mounts, and his bones begin to creak. The drugs don’t provide the clean break between the waking and dreaming worlds which sleep does. This time, the form he took in Nathan’s dream is a little undercooked. 

He curls into a fetal position, clutching his skull with both hands as a lattice of needle-fine bone rips through his back, trembling and sticky with gore. The skeletal wings grow flesh and feathers, anchoring themselves with long cords of muscle to the muscles of his shoulders. As their weight begins to settle on him, a golden glow spreads from the center of his chest and across his entire body, soothing the pain and shock of the change. Just as he’s getting his bearings, the black quicksand gives way beneath him and he falls out the other side into thin air. His wings beat, instinctively trying to keep him aloft, but he doesn’t know how to work them, and when his brain gets in the way, he starts plummeting like a rock. He slams into the ground, bones shattering and organs bursting on impact, and lies there crying in the grass, waiting for his body to repair itself. 

Pain is his great fear now; Although damage is temporary, the pain is still real. Having a morbid imagination, he’s already contemplated the many novel and horrific ways that a body like his could be made to suffer. An infinite capacity for healing is, after a fashion, an infinite capacity for pain. 

Relief is swift, at least. The light pours through him, kissing every single cell, until he’s fully regenerated. It wouldn’t be that fast or clean in real life, he thinks, climbing to his feet. In real life, undoing injuries like that would take him hours, days, and he wouldn’t have the benefit of bleeding out and dying like a regular idiot. It’s not a nice thought. 

He squints up at a blood red sky, streaked with candyfloss clouds. This is not the dreamscape where he visited Nathan. He fluffs his feathers and wipes the tears from his eyes, striding purposefully across the field of swaying, violet grass. The land yields shrubs and flowers of every imaginable color, and their clashing perfumes fill the air. 

In the distance, someone is sitting under a purple tree. Skwisgaar jogs towards them, but his wings create an annoying amount of air-resistance. He beats them, giving himself liftoff, and manages to glide the rest of the way, allowing his reflexes to execute a fairly graceful landing. 

“Well, lookit who finally decided t’ get high with me,” says Pickles. He sits cross-legged under the tree, two sets of arms arrayed around him in some sort of yoga pose. A jewel-like third eye stares out from the center of his forehead, a pupiless mirrorball fringed with delicate orange lashes. Up close, Skwisgaar can see that he’s actually hovering several centimeters off the ground. The eye swivels to face him, blazing with kaleidoscopic colors. 

“Pickle?” he asks. 

“Duh,” says Pickles. “Sit down.” Skwisgaar yelps as an unseen force grabs hold of him and pulls him down into the purple grass. “Sahrry,” Pickles laughs. “I’m just messin’ with ya.”

Skwisgaar sits up, shaking off the feeling of invisible hands. “Whats you ams, Pickle?” he demands, unsettled. He draws his wings protectively around himself, feeling naked and vulnerable under the power of the eye. 

Pickles looks vexed. “I dunno,” he says. “Dis is where I go when I get fucked up an’ black out. I get all enlightened an’ shit.” Both sets of arms cross. “It really sucks.”

Skwisgaar frowns. “Hows come?”

“Because,” says Pickles, pointing to the kaleidoscope eye, “I can see intah myself. I can see it all laid out infronna me: all my memories, all my issues, all the idiotic, irresponsible shit I done in my life. And so what? Would I do any of it different? Prahbably not.” He props his cheek in one of his palms. “I get high t’ forget dis shit, ya know? And den when I get here, I can’t get away from it.” He cradles his head with one set of hands, gesturing to and fro with the other. “Dhere’s my fucken parents, dhere’s my shitty fucken brother. Self-awareness sucks! I already _ know _ why I drink so much, and knowin’ dah truth don’t fucken fix it.” He gives Skwisgaar a glum nod. “I can read yer mind, too,” he says. “I can see right intah all of our damaged, ugly fucken brains. All dah trauma, an’ dah insecurity, an’ dah shitty coping mechanisms. We’re such fucked-up pieces of garbage,” he sniffs, his two green eyes beginning to shine with tears.

Skwisgaar feels a tug at his core, and before he can think about it, he’s kneeling in the purple grass and pulling Pickles into a hug. “Don’ts- don’ts cries,” he stammers. In his dream-form, the need to give healing and comfort is overpowering. He awkwardly pats Pickles’s back, confused and embarrassed by his own behavior. 

“Aww, fuck yeah,” says Pickles. “I was waitin’ on one of dhese magic hugs.” 

Skwisgaar reddens, feeling all four arms wrap around him. “Reallies?” he asks. 

“Yeah, really. Damnit, I’m so jealous of yer powers,” says Pickles. “How come you got dah feel-good one? Fuck me, man.” 

“I- I don’ts knows,” Skwisgaar says meekly, looking down at Pickles’s pink scalp. He _ has _ wondered what his healing touch is like from the other side. “Whats does it… feels like?” 

“Like I’m bein’ hugged by a glowing golden angel, you asshole. Whaduhya think?” Pickles pulls away, grinning. 

“Its heals your… emoktions, too?” Skwisgaar asks, fascinated. 

“Yeah, kinda!” says Pickles. “I mean, you can’t fix people’s issues, but you can definitely put ‘em in a better mood.” He shakes his head. “And boy are we gonna need somethin’ fer band morale, what with dah enda dah world comin’ down on us. We’re all gonna act like we’re too cool fer it, because we’re a buncha self-deceptive fucken cowards. But dhat won’t last too long when we’re really hurt an’ scared.”

“Pfft- Ja, I cans pictures dat,” says Skwisgaar. “Dis bands haves always relies on me. I takes goods care of all you littles dildos, don’ts worries about it.” He smiles. 

Pickles claps him on the shoulder. “Ahright pal, let’s naht pretend like yer just a big fucken teddybear all of a sudden.” 

“I coulds be,” says Skwisgaar, vaguely affronted. “Ifs I wants to.” 

The eye bores into him, making him flinch. Pickles telepathically plucks an oblong orange fruit from the tree behind him and levitates it into one of his outstretched hands. “Listen,” he says, sinking his teeth into the dense, syrupy flesh. “Havin’ crazy powers is gonna change us, but it’s not gonna turn us into completely different people.” He talks with his mouth full, bright juice dribbling into his goatee. “Yer powers give you dis urge to take care of everybody- but yer still _ you,_ so you feel all dhat shit dah way _ Skwisgaar _ would feel it. Even dah most warm an’ fuzzy version of you is still kinda a dick.”

Skwisgaar shrugs, preening his wings. “Such ams my parizdoxickals nature. But yous all lorns to appreshkiates it.”

Pickles rolls his eyes. “An’ what about when you can’t handle it?” He licks the side of his wrist, catching a rivulet of nectar on his tongue. 

“Handles whats?”

“Like I said,” he gnoshes, “shootin’ you fulla cosmic lifeforce don’t make you a saint, and it don’t get ridda any of yer fucken hangups, either. Yer a psycho, control-freak, perfectionist; Dhat urge to help people is gonna drive you fucken crazy when you realize you can’t fix everything. Oh, an’ fer dah luva God,” his faint, orange eyebrows knit with worry, “ya gotta stahp fantasizin’ about cuttin’ yerself. Trust me, dhat shit’s naht healthy.” He sucks the smooth white stone of the fruit free of pulp before tossing it over his shoulder.

Skwisgaar watches the coordination of his four hands with interest, wondering what having twice the drummer could do for him, musically speaking. “Wells,” says, shrinking defensively, “I’ms not actuallies goink to does it.” He gets quiet, sliding his calloused fingertips against the satiny skin of his inner arm- What Toki calls his ‘baby-skin.’ Apart from the callouses, which he retains through some subconscious force of will, his entire body is like this. There’s nothing physically unpleasant about it- quite the opposite in fact -and it disturbs him that he can’t figure out why a part of him rebels against it so violently. “Pickle,” he says, “can I aks you a reals serious question? Because you cans, eh, reads into my minds?”

“Sure,” says Pickles. 

Skwisgaar steels himself, scrunching his eyes shut. “Ams I reallies havings deh gay for Toki?”

“Dood,” Pickles laughs. “You’ve been madly in love with him fer _ years._ It’s like, dah gayest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Skwisgaar opens one eye, clutching his chest in pseudo-agony. “Euughhhh… gaaahhh,” he says. “Dat ams… a lots to process.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Whats I’ms supposed to does about it?” he asks hoarsely.

“Listen,” says Pickles, “about Toki…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Ya know, he’s naht doin’ so great. Actually, he’s kinda freakin’ dah fuck out.”

“Yous reads Toki’s minds, too!” Skwisgaar exclaims, feeling like an idiot. “Whats he ams thinkings?” he demands. “Whys he avoids me, hah? Ams he feelings deh same ways abouts me? Whys he’s freakings out?”

“Toki’s still resisting his transformation,” says Pickles. “Dhat’s naht good. In fact, it’s really fucken bad.” 

Skwisgaar swallows. “Nat’an tolds me dere ams a way for hims to be alrights.”

“He’s gotta go willingly,” says Pickles. “If he keeps fightin’ it, eventually it’s gonna be forced on him. An’ dhat’s not gonna be pretty.” The third eye rivets Skwisgaar in place, showing him an image of Toki with jet black wings and empty, pupiless eyes, unfeeling and unreachable behind the veil of darkness, cut off from everything that once gave him comfort or joy. Pitiless and unblinking, he drifts like a ghost through the world, destroying everything in his path. 

“Nononono,” Skwisgaar chokes, “dhat’s won’ts happens. I’s not lets dhat happens.”

“If Toki willingly let’s dah change happen,” says Pickles, “he’ll have some control over how it turns out. He can turn himself intah somethin’ dhat’s… still fucken scary, but maybe not so miserable to be turned into. He can learn to control dah whole killin’ everything in sight thing- He can keep his ability to, ya know, feel stuff. But it’s naht gonna be easy.”

“Whats can I do?” Skwisgaar asks. “He don’ts listens to me! Hows can I makes him understands dis?”

The wind picks up, whipping through their hair, and suddenly it feels like they’re standing under an invisible helicopter. Pickles wets a finger on his tongue and holds it up, as if to gauge the direction of the air. “We’re outta time,” he says. “Yer comin’ down.”

“Tells me!” says Skwisgaar. The wind accelerates, stripping the candy-colored landscape into tiny, shimmering particles that waft away like confetti. The psychedelics are beginning to wear off, and Skwisgaar knows he’ll likely forget all of this when he sobers up, just like he forgot about the whales. Still, he has to try. “Tells me whats to do!”

“You gotta tell him ya love him!” Pickles cries. “But you gotta know dhat’s not gonna save him! You can’t save him!” 

“I haves to!” Skwisgaar screams over the storm.

“Only Toki can save Toki,” says Pickles, his voice a faint echo as he dissolves into thousands of shreds of rainbow paper, and the howling wind carries him away.

  
  
  


One great thing about constantly regenerating, Skwisgaar has found, is that he can pass out pretty much anywhere without suffering from stiffness. He wakes to find himself pretzeled-up in a swivel chair in the studio, still clutching Toki’s Flying V, his brain blurry from the residual effects of whatever Pickles gave him, but his body comfortable and well-rested. He flexes his fingers, giving the guitar a couple of licks. The high definitely affects his reflexes, but hopefully it won’t reverse any of the progress he’s made once it wears off. To be scientific about it, he should probably get Pickles to tell him exactly what was in that joint- Once Pickles isn’t curled like a cat on the sofa in a puddle of his own drool. 

It’s just after six in the afternoon, according to the console display. Skwisgaar gets up from his chair, setting the Flying V in its stand, and swapping it for the Explorer. He can’t decide if this was a good trip or a bad trip. The only image he can really remember is a somewhat comical one: Pickles, with too many arms, like one of those Hindu elephant-head guys. But it’s left him with an inexplicable sense of doom. 

Whatever made Toki bale on this morning’s recording session, Skwisgaar has given him a _very_ _reasonable_ eight hours to wallow in it, and is now anxious to confront him. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure this was due to something other than Toki’s usual stage fright. 

When both Toki’s bedroom and the rec room turn up empty, Skwisgaar is frustrated. When none of the klokateers he accosts in the hallways can give him any leads, he’s worried. When one from security finally informs him that ‘Master Wartooth has left the building,’ he starts to fucking panic.

Toki doesn’t answer his phone. He can’t have gotten too far though, because Skwisgaar is convinced he can still sense Toki’s presence. And so, with the Explorer strapped to his back (for moral support) Skwisgaar sets out across the dark and densely forested grounds of Mordhaus to retrieve him.

Weeds sprout where he steps. The yardwolves lick his hands and rub themselves against his legs, greedily absorbing the excess lifeforce that radiates from his body. “Choo, choo!” he says, batting them away. The pack follows him into the woods, hooting and snapping, the sky above darkening with warning clouds.

Skwisgaar takes a deep breath, inhaling the scents of pine, and peat, and smoke, and closes his eyes, straining to ‘hear’ Toki’s presence. The ground vibrates beneath his feet with that eerie, soundless music, and he reaches over his shoulder for the Explorer, trying to translate the sensation of Toki’s nearness into actual chords in order to articulate to himself what he’s feeling. As the not-sound draws nearer, the yardwolves circle him, whining and pawing the ground in fear. They stop up ahead at the treeline, looking back at him and whimpering their unwillingness to venture any further.

Toki stands at the edge of a stream in the center of the clearing, clutching one arm to his chest. The twisted body of a dead wolf lies on the rocky bank a couple of meters away from him, dangling halfway in the water. 

Skwisgaar approaches, slinging his guitar back over his shoulder. “Toki?” he asks, his boots struggling for purchase as he clambers over the shelf of slick, moss-covered shale. 

Toki doesn’t acknowledge him. “Hey,” says Skwisgaar. “Whats yous doing all deh way outs heres?” He looks from Toki to the dead wolf. “Ams you alrights?” he asks. Toki continues to stare past him, catatonic.

The hiss of water fills the silence. Skwisgaar looks back at the treeline, where the other wolves pace the perimeter. Their fallen sister undulates in the water like a bundle of rags, her head bobbing at the shallow edge of the stream.

A bright trickle of blood pools in the crease of Toki’s elbow. Skwisgaar leans over, trying to catch his eye. “Says something!” he demands. “Looks at me!” Toki’s eyes stare sightlessly ahead. He doesn’t react as Skwisgaar grabs him by the wrist and extends his forearm, revealing a set of bloody crescent-shaped wounds. 

“_T__oki,_” says Skwisgaar. “Yous hort.” He studies Toki’s empty expression. There’s no look of pain, no hint of any sensation at all. “Comes here,” he says, taking Toki’s hand. He bows to kiss the inside of Toki’s wrist, sending a bolt of healing up his arm. 

Toki startles, the touch of Life breaking his trance. He recoils from Skwisgaar’s grip as the seeping punctures in his arm close, leaving a sweat of blood on top of smooth, unbroken skin. “I kills her,” he says. “Her neck ams snaps in halfs.”

Skwisgaar’s eyebrows fly upwards. “You kills a wolfs wit’ yous bare hands?” he asks. The notion is impossibly metal. 

“I didn’ts means to,” says Toki. “She bits me. Deh evils didn’ts kills her; _ I _ kills her. I breaks her neck wit’ my hands.” Skwisgaar tries to pet at Toki’s hair, but Toki slaps him away, raising glassy, milkstone eyes against him. “But its makes me strongs,” says Toki. “Deh evils makes my body strongs for deh killings.” 

Skwisgaar watches the fluid movement of veins and tendons in Toki’s healed forearm. Fix him, you idiot, he thinks to himself. What’s the point of having all this power if you can’t use it to fix him? His heart squeezes like a fist. “It ams ohkay,” he says. “Don’ts cries.” Kneeling beside the dead wolf, he strokes her muzzle with one hand and reaches high above his head with the other. A bolt of white lightning slices through the canopy of trees, and he wrenches it through his body and into hers. She stirs, her ribcage expanding and contracting with a high-pitched whine, and in moments she is stealing off into the forest to rejoin the pack. “Dere,” says Skwisgaar, panting with effort. “Sees? It’s ohkay.” 

“Ams you goings to does dat every time I kills somethink?” asks Toki.

Skwisgaar massages the rawness left behind his sternum by the lightning. “If you wants me to,” he says helplessly. They stand there, next to the stream. 

“Dis ams hows it’s goings to be, den?” Toki raises his voice. “Yous just goings to follows me around forevers and- _ Zaps! _-cleans up afters my fuck-ups?”

“Eaahh… why nots?” says Skwisgaar. “I don’ts minds doing dat.” He gives Toki a pleading look. 

“Because dat ams whats yous always done, ja?” Toki snaps. “I’ms a dangerous monsters, whats also a stupids little baby, and yous deh only one dhats can handles me,” he continues. “I always fucks up everyt’ing, and you always fixes it, and dat ams how it’s always been, rights? Ams dhat rights?”

“_Toki-_” 

Toki looks across the water at the opposite side of the treeline. “I hates dis,” he says. His jaw is taut, the tendons in his neck standing out as he speaks through clenched teeth. 

“It ams ohkay-”

“It’s not ohkei!” Toki yells hoarsely. He kicks the ground, turning up splintered layers of shale. “I feels it tryings to takes over my body,” he groans. “I tries to holds it in, but its keeps comings back worse and worse! Whats deh fucks ams I goings to do?” 

Skwisgaar sighs. “You has to lets dhat part happens,” he says softly.

“Whats?!”

“Yous regular mortals body can’ts contains dis powers. Its wills rips you aparts. Yous body ams tryings to adapts itself, but yous not lettings it happens. Dhat’s why yous in dis terribles pain.”

“No,” says Toki. “No, no, no. Whats you talkings about?”

“Yous gots to stops fightings it,” says Skwisgaar. “Yous gots to change into deh god of Death. It ams deh only way.”

Toki takes a step back, his eyes widening in a look of betrayal. “No,” he says. “How cans you says dhat? You promises dhat you woulds helps me!”

Skwisgaar reaches for him. “I _ ams _ tryings to helps you.”

“Don’ts touch me!” says Toki. He looks frantically around, hyperventilating. They are alone out here. Even the wolves are gone. 

“Yous gonna feel betters when dis part ams overs,” says Skwisgaar. “Beings Death don’ts gotsta to be so bad. You can be whats you are… and stills be ohkay.”

“How does you knows?” 

“I just does!” 

“You don’ts know shit!” says Toki. The ground vibrates darkly, moss and river weeds shriveling at his feet. Toki screams.

“Yous horting yourself,” says Skwisgaar. “Stops dhat!”

“_Nononono-_” Toki chants, shaking his head. He clasps both hands over his heart in an attempt to muffle the low music rising within him. Blue veins stand out from his clammy, ashen skin, and his eyeballs roll back, showing white. An eerie stillness descends over the clearing, arresting the flow of the river, freezing insects in the air. All the grass in a fifty-meter radius blackens and crumples like charcoal as Toki sucks the life from everything around him. Even the soil, and water, and air are stripped of microorganisms, leaving behind a sterile vacuum, like the surface of the moon.

Skwisgaar is the last creature left standing near the lip of the black hole, his inexhaustible lifeforce disappearing into its hungry maw as quickly as his body can generate it. He sways with weakness, but the light gilds his insides, fortifying his semi-mortal tissues against destruction. 

Toki is doubled over in pain, his eyes returning to normal as he claws back the darkness. “I won’ts lets it takes my body,” he says. His voice is ragged. “You can’ts makes me!” 

“Dildos,” says Skwisgaar. “Stupids, dildos, idiot- Listens to me! I’s tryings to helps you!”

“Fucks you!” Toki screams. “You promises you was gonna protecks me! Buts you can’ts, cans you? No one cans.”

“I’s been so fuckings goods to you,” says Skwisgaar. “I gives you everyt’ing- I tells you shit I ain’ts never told nobodies,” he seethes. “But you don’ts wants my help? Oukay, den. _ You _ deals with it. You don’ts wants to be a dangers to everyone arounds you? Den figures out how to controls yous’self. Stops beings a crybaby, lorns some fuckings diskipline.” Toki sobs. “Go ons den,” says Skwisgaar. “Whats yous brilliants plans to fix all dis?”

Toki punches him in the teeth. They tangle briefly, but Toki is stronger, and has the advantage of blind rage. He tackles Skwisgaar to the ground, kneeing him in the stomach and pinning his hands beside his ears. “Fucks you, Skwisgaar,” he screams. His tears slide down the tip of his nose to patter Skwisgaar’s face like rain. “I hates you.”

“No you don’ts,” Skwisgaar spits. “Yous jealous of me, and feelings sorries for yous’self. Grows up.”

Toki grabs him by the throat and dunks his head under the water. Skwisgaar thrashes, but it’s no use- With Toki’s weight on top of him, he can’t get free. His lungs burn as river water fills his nose and mouth, his temples pounding, his vision going black. A distant part of him clinically wonders whether he can die from lack of oxygen, or whether his body would keep itself alive to suffer indefinitely.

The last time Toki tried to drown him, it was in a hotel swimming pool. Toki body-slammed him into the water and the back of his skull hit the lip of the pool with an audible crack, their bandmates looking on in shock. That first big fight had been so violent, so out of control, that it made everything that came afterwards seem like horsing around. It was a fight that could have ended Dethklok before they’d even gotten started, but somehow, quite mysteriously, it had served to bind them all together instead.

After Nathan broke it up, Skwisgaar had gone back to the room to wash the chlorine from his hair and collect himself under the breeze of a grossly inadequate hotel blow dryer. The next morning, he’d found Toki’s resignation on the nightstand in the form of an origami bear made from hotel stationary, and intercepted him stuffing his pockets for the road with the combination of stale bagels and sugary cereal which Americans had the temerity to call a “continental breakfast.” 

Sit down, kid, he’d pressed, filling two styrofoam cups with coffee. He’d taken a lighter to the corner of the letter, dangling the burning paper in front of Toki’s face. You stay in the band, he’d said. You follow my lead. You do what I tell you. You stop embarrassing me. And you stay. 

Toki’s wide-eyed innocence had seemed all the more poignant in contrast with the psychotic violence of which he had shown himself capable the previous night. I tried to kill you, he’d said. 

But you failed, Skwisgaar shrugged. Smirked. Took a sip of coffee.

I lose control sometimes, Toki had said. I’m afraid I’m not a very good person.

This isn’t church, Skwisgaar had said. You joined a death metal band. No one cares if you’re a good person. 

Toki had looked up from sorting his Froot Loops by color to give him a watery smile, and perhaps thatwas the moment Skwisgaar should have known he was done for.

In the present, Skwisgaar spits up muddy water, blinking the black spots from his eyes. He’s lying on the riverbank, his head cradled in Toki’s lap, his ears popping with pressure. 

“I’m sorries- I’m sorries-” Toki is babbling. 

“When I says you can’ts kills me,” Skwisgaar coughs, “I didn’ts intends for dhat to bes interpretsed as a challenge.” Lightheaded and punchy, he nuzzles Toki’s thigh. 

“Ohfucks- Ams you ohkay? I’m sorries-”

He reaches up to hush Toki with a finger to his lips. “I’s gonna be fines,” he says, smiling blearily up at Toki’s stricken expression. “You cans beats deh shit outta me overs and overs again, and I’s always gonna be fines. And I’s so deep under dis fucking spell dhat probablies I lets you. Ams dhat what we’s gonna do?” 

“No,” says Toki, frantically stroking his chest. “I won’ts horts you again- I’m so sorries- Ohgods- Ohfucks-”

Skwisgaar chuckles. “Den whats we’s gonna do? What ams dis?” He gestures between them. 

Toki’s hands rake through Skwisgaar’s wet hair. “Please,” he says. “Oh, _ please-_” Skwisgaar slings his arms around Toki’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and Toki groans into his mouth. “Fucks-” Toki lifts Skwisgaar’s torso off the ground, kissing deeper and bringing their chests together. “Dis vorsion,” Toki breathes against his lips. “Please, let’s be dis vorsion of us.” 

Skwisgaar noses him fondly. “Dhat ams… easiers saids den done, I fears.” He kisses the center of Toki’s moustache. “Hey,” he says, remembering why he came out here in the first place. “Whys you stops playings dis morning?”

Tokis clings tightly, trying to bury himself. “I felts deh Death comings on real bads,” he says. “I thinks deh musicks brings it outs. I hads to gets away from everybodies.”

“Dhat ams a shames,” Skwisgaar hums in his ear. “You was sounding real goods.”

Toki pulls back. “You really means dat?” His eyelashes flutter. 

“Toki,” Skwisgaar rolls his eyes. “Whens was deh last times I has lied to you about your guitars playink in orders to spares your feelinks?”

“Oh wowie,” says Toki, blushing with surprised pleasure. “I really haves beens prackstising.” 

“Oh wowie,” says Skwisgaar, affecting a dumb-guy voice. “Whens you prackstice, yous gets better.” He puts a finger to his chin. “Dat ams almost likes what deh philosophers calls, eugh… _ cause ands effects!_”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on my phone in the car during the drive to visit my family for Christmas; You know, like a fucking maniac.


	8. Chapter 8

The California desert rushes past them through the windows of the Dethbus as the band heads down to LA for the weekend in search of inspiration (better drugs). Progress on the new album has officially stalled since, for reasons he can’t seem to articulate, Nathan keeps rejecting everything they record as ‘just not right.’ Endless arguments between Nathan and Pickles on this score have left Dethklok’s entire string section with little to do but mope around, waiting for them to sort it out— though Skwisgaar, for his part, respects Nathan’s instincts. There’s a droning tension in the air. It feels like everything is accelerating, like they’re hurtling towards the end. The end of what, Skwisgaar can’t say, but it seems nonetheless important that the album be the right one, when it arrives.

While Nathan and Pickles sit at the front of the bus, plotting out which clubs they want to hit, Skwisgaar reclines on a long bench seat in the back near the empty fireplace, sipping his pink juice and meditating on the horizon. His blood is quick, his insides heating with wordless anxiety. A sky the color of Windex blazes back at him, almost threatening in its spotless blueness, and he chews the tip of his plastic straw, listening with his entire body for any hostile vibrations. 

Taking a long sip, he wonders if the cloying taste of fake-strawberry is ruining his palate. As annoying as it is to have to drink this stuff all the time, trying to cling to a normal weight has proven to be well worth the effort. A few weekends ago, he forgot to eat anything and came to the alarming conclusion that while he _ can’t _actually starve to death— because once his body runs out of usable calories it just starts feeding itself on the cosmos —this is nonetheless a scenario he wants to avoid. Hunger makes him feel lightheaded, jittery, and crazy— less present, and beyond a certain point, less human. Ever since he realized he could enter this state, he’s been doing all he can to stave it off. He runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, waiting for the pink juice to have its salutary effect and interrogating his own instinctive mistrust of these cloudless, American vistas.

Danger looms on that bright horizon, until Toki’s leg brushes his, startling Skwisgaar back to the present. After checking to see that Murderface is thoroughly distracted with using a butterfly knife to scrape the crud out from under his fingernails, he shoots Toki a sly smile and a quick kiss on the mouth. 

Toki giggles silently, eyes darting around. “_Don’t do that,_” he whispers. “_They’ll see_.” 

Skwisgaar licks his lips. He hopes Toki doesn’t mind fake-strawberry. “_So?_”

Toki squirms excitedly in his seat. Their eyes meet, and he stills, growing serious. “_I used to sit here and stare at your hair_,” he says. “_It’s so different in different lights, and when you sit by the window on a long drive, it changes so many times_.” 

Skwisgaar aches. He has no ready words for that.

“Schpeak Englisch!” says Murderface, looking up from picking his nails to point his knife at them. 

“Pffft.” Skwisgaar’s head lolls to face him. “Racist.” 

“Ja!” says Toki. “Racists! What ifs insteads we says you gots to lorns _ norsk_, how ‘bout dat?”

“Nope,” says Murderface. He sticks his knife into an armrest and reaches down to struggle with his boots. “No way. Englisch isch the offischial language of Dethklok. It’sch in the band conschitution, asch eschtsblisched by the band congressch—” he winces “—in a three-fifthsch vote.” With a grunt, he yanks one of his boots off, taking half the sole of his foot with it, before setting to work on the other. 

“Ack!” says Toki. “Why don’ts you wears no socks?!”

“Who givesch a pissch, that’sch why,” says Murderface. The sweat and friction in his boots have left his feet wretched with blisters, and now one of his heels has been totally skinned. 

“_Do you think he sleeps in them?_” Toki turns to Skwisgaar, horrified. “_How does that even happen?_”

“_Eugh_.” Skwisgaar pulls a face. “_I don’t know._”

“Hey!” Murderface yells, pain bunching his doglike features. “If you’ve got schomething to schay to me, schay it in Englisch!” His lip trembles, a spot of blood hitting the floor of the bus. “I _ know _ you’re talking about me,” he says miserably.

“_Oh no,_” Skwisgaar groans. “_You know what?_” He brushes Toki’s shoulder. “_I feel sorry for him._” 

Toki snickers. “_I think that’s like, your punishment._”

“_No way_,” says Skwisgaar.

“_Yup.” _ Toki nudges him back. “_Sentenced to being helpful and nice._” 

“Alrights, oukay.” Skwisgaar stands up. “Dis ams pat’eticks,” he says to Murderface. “I can’ts looks at dis no more.”

Murderface scowls up at him. “Then don’t, dickhole. Go back to looking out the window.” 

“Mordorface,” Skwisgaar sighs, canting his head so that his hair falls to one side. 

“What?”

He crosses his arms. “Does you wants my helps?” 

Murderface balks. “Huh?”

Skwisgaar takes a step towards him, and Murderface glances around, certain he’s being put on in some way. “It ams a sorfask wounds,” says Skwisgaar, exasperated. “Very easies for me. Take like two seconds.” 

Murderface examines his bloody heel, wrinkling his nose in deliberation. It’s plainly never occurred to him that he would ever be a recipient of Skwisgaar’s healing, and the prospect seems to make him nervous. “Why would you wanna help _ me _ out all of a schudden?” he asks. 

“Why you gots to makes it diffickults, hah?” Skwisgaar places a hand over his heart. “I’ms just tryink to be nice. Dildos.”

“Nische?” Murderface narrows his eyes, incredulous. “Isch thisch like when you went through that weird goth phasche and schtarted wearing lipschtick all the time?” he asks. “Are you doing like, a thing?” 

“No, I ams nots doings ‘a t’ing,’” Skwisgaar protests, drawing the attention of the front of the bus.

“Wait a minute,” says Nathan, “I thought you were back to the ‘all-white thing.’”

“Dat wasn’ts ‘a t’ing!’”

“Dood,” says Pickles, “Fer dah first two years we knew you, you dressed like a Backstreet Boy; It was one-hundred percent ‘a thing.’”

“Dis ams what I gets for tryinks to be nice, oukay, fucks you, never minds.” Skwisgaar flops back down in his seat. He can feel Toki vibrating with silent laughter beside him. 

The Dethbus screeches to a sudden halt, throwing everyone forward and scattering the papers in Nathan’s lap. “What the hell?” Nathan growls. 

Pickles looks out the window. “Dis ain’t LA.”

  
  
  
  
  


They’ve broken down near an Indian casino in the middle of the desert. Dethklok stands in a row, gazing across the parking lot at a tunneled entryway festooned with neon cactus flowers and psuedo-Mesoamerican snakes. 

“Dis place blows.” says Pickles. “Ya smell dhat?”

“Ment’ol cigarettes?” asks Toki.

“No,” says Pickles. “Desperation. Lookit all dese broke pieces of shit.” He points. “See dhat guy over dere on his cell phone? Dhat guy just lost his fucken house or somethin’.”

“Woah.” Toki shakes his head. “Dhat’s brutal.”

“Makes ya think, don’t it?” 

“No,” says Murderface. “Not really.” He kicks up a spray of driveway gravel, visibly regretting it the instant his wounded foot connects with the ground.

“It’s just for tonight while the bus is getting fixed,” says Nathan. “We’ll have some drinks, whatever, crash here. That’s it.” He turns to his left. “No gambling!”

“Why are you lookin’ at me?” asks Murderface, nursing his heel.

Nathan looms over him. “You _ know _why.”

Inside, Nathan and Pickles approach the reception, as Murderface shuffles after them, trying to conceal his limp. 

“I can’ts believes he don’ts want my help,” says Skwisgaar, as he and Toki hang back behind one of several columns in the form of giant golden palm trees, watching the others from across the lobby. Murderface’s obvious pain is now pissing him off. 

“Maybe he ams self-conchkius about it,” says Toki.

Skwisgaar crosses his arms. “Dere ams somet’ink reallies wrong wit’ dat guy,” he says. 

“Yous just now fizgering dat out?”

“No. But it ams a lots more, eh, aparents, I guess. Nows dat I’s all benevolents and shit.” 

Warm fingers stroke the nape of his neck as Toki cranes to see that the other’s backs are turned. He is standing— where else? —way too close to Skwisgaar’s elbow. “Moidaface just haves deh low selfs-exskeem,” he offers. His blunt nails trace soothing patterns against Skwisgaar’s scalp. “Dat ams why he don’ts takes a showers an’ brushes his teefs! Ands horts himselfs on porpose.”

Skwisgaar flinches. “You reallies t’ink he, ah. Does dat. On porpose?” He looks down at the swirling green and blue carpet. The only thing worse than pitying Murderface is _ identifying _ with him. “Maybe we shoulds, uh… Does you ever t’ink, maybe, as his pals, we shoulds…” He clears his throat.

“Wow.” Toki murmurs against his shoulder. “Yous really not so metals no more, is you?” His probing fingers curl around the back of Skwisgaar’s skull, turning Skwisgaar’s face towards him. There’s a furtive glimmer in his eyes, like he can’t believe he’s really getting away with this— with just reaching out and touching Skwisgaar’s hair whenever he feels like it. 

Skwisgaar spins Toki against the column. “Tells dat to deh fact dat I shreds harder den evers,” he preens, kissing him with force. No one in the lobby can see them from this angle, but he’ll be almost disappointed if the CC-TV footage doesn’t make it on the Dethklok Minute.

A round of shots leads to a round of Baccarat, and despite Nathan’s previous injunctions, the evening rapidly descends into chaos. Luckily, they had the foresight to rent out the top three floors of the hotel, so that by the time Murderface is on his knees, vomiting into an ice bucket and begging Pickles for money, they can retreat far away from the other patrons so as not to make any more of a spectacle of themselves.

Drunk, but not ruinously so, Skwisgaar finds his way to Toki’s room once it’s lights-out for the others. He is draped over a chair by the window, popping a bottle of room service champagne with a bathroom hand towel to catch the cork. He pours two flutes and approaches the bed, where Toki is sprawled on his belly, faffing around with the TV remote, and kicking his feet in the air. “To deh new albums,” says Skwisgaar, perching on the edge of the mattress. 

Toki sits up, accepting his glass. “What’s happens to you nots drinkings no more?” he smiles. 

Skwisgaar clinks the rims. “To nots havinks to records over yous rhythms tracks,” he says, taking a sip.

“You won’ts dis times?” Toki brightens. “You promise?” 

“Pffft, no.” says Skwisgaar, inspecting the bubbles in his glass with a critical tilt of the wrist. “It ams ups to you to does it rights dis time, so I don’ts haves to.” He lifts his socked feet up onto the bed, pivoting so that they’re sitting face to face in the middle of it. “Don’ts looks at me likes deh missings kitten,” he says. He pokes Toki in the arm. “Yous doing goods.”

Toki has a strange habit of sloshing wine around in his mouth like Listerine before swallowing it. “Ja?” he sighs. “I can’ts even tells.” He toys with the drawstring on his flannel sleep pants, suddenly shy of Skwisgaar’s gaze. 

”Looks at me,” says Skwisgaar. He smiles, hitting that bliss point of ideal drunkenness where he’s warm, and fizzy, and horny, but not yet a sloppy mess. “I’ms gonna tells you a secret,” he stage-whispers, taken by a surge of perhaps the most pure, uncomplicated pride he has ever felt for his protege. “Toki: Yous really talented, and when you actuallies puts in deh efforts, yous guitar playings ams greats.” 

“You really means dat?” Toki squeaks, dazzled. A furious blush spreads from the center of his face.

“It ams deh truth,” Skwisgaar hums in amused, inebriated satisfaction. Bestowing praise like this feels good, he finds. It makes him feel powerful and generous. He glances down, smirking at Toki’s obvious arousal. “Dat really does it fors you, hah?”

“Fffffff—” says Toki. “Shuts up!” He squirms. “No, waits— Keeps goink.” Skwisgaar cranes to kiss him, swiping his tongue over Toki’s warm palate as the news plays on mute in the background, lighting the dim room with scenes of faraway destruction. 

That having sex with Toki comes naturally is no surprise; In a way, it’s just a logical extension of the already high degree of physical intimacy that has always tacitly existed between them. Their bodies are well-trained to synch up, to match each other’s micro-movements, and it’s incredible how easily, and wordlessly, and irresistibly they fall into each other the instant that final barrier is crossed. 

The sex itself is so effortlessly good, that Skwisgaar is competely blindsided by what comes afterwards: As soon as it’s over, he collapses, clinging to Toki’s waist, engulfed in a flood of post-orgasm bonding hormones. “_Toki—_” he says, pressing his face just above Toki’s navel. The salty warmth of Toki’s skin fills his senses, and all of a sudden he’s _ weeping_.

“Whats wrongs?” Toki pants. 

Skwisgaar trembles, squeezing Toki’s abdomen with all his strength. His mouth opens, but he can’t speak. The polarity of the earth has flipped around him. I didn’t know I was so lonely before, he thinks. Toki, I didn’t _know_. 

“Whys you cryink?” Toki asks. He rakes bewildered hands through Skwisgaar’s sweat-damp hair. “Whats happen?”

“_Toki_—” Skwisgaar chokes. “_I’m so sorry—_”

“_For what?_”

I’m incomplete without you, he wants to say. When I’m composing for myself, I’m always already composing for you. But all he can manage is Toki’s name, again.

“Skwisgaar!” Toki wriggles in his grip, hauling Skwisgaar up so that his head is on Toki’s chest and their faces are closer together. “Yous scaring me!”

Skwisgaar scrunches his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing. Toki’s heartbeat resonates inside his skull. “_I can’t believe I was so afraid of giving in to this_,” he says, at last. “_I’ll never forgive myself_ _for wasting so much time._”

Toki shakes his head. “You lettings me joins Dethklok was deh singles greatest t’ing whats ever happens to me,” he says. “_It’s been a good life. I don’t think it was a waste of time_.”

“_But we could’ve had _ this,” says Skwisgaar. “_It could’ve been like this, before._” 

But even as he’s saying this, he realizes it’s not true. He wasn’t capable of this, when they met. It’s only by a very long and circuitous route that he’s managed to arrive here at all. Only through gradual accretion, and only through the medium of guitar that he’s been able to achieve this kind of actual fucking _connection_ with someone. “_Why did I have to wait for it to be the end of the fucking world?_” he groans. “_What if it’s _ too late _ now?_” 

“Whats you means?” Toki touches his cheek. “Whats you means deh ends of deh worlds?”

Skwisgaar looks up into his eyes. “I— I don’ts knows.” He hesitates. “Forgets what I says.”

Toki whispers, “Ams yous havings dese dreams, too?” He returns Skwisgaar’s tight grip. “Does dat means dhey ams gonna comes true?” 

“Fucks—” says Skwisgaar. “I guess sos.” They cling to each other in silence. Toki gazes up at the television, where piles of bodies are being pulled from the wreckage of some unknown disaster. That’s not _ you_, Skwisgaar wants to say. But he doesn’t actually know that, for sure. Since Dethklok hit it big, the world around them has been falling apart; Mass death has become a common occurrence. Maybe it _ is _caused by Toki, after all. 

I’ll love you anyway, Skwisgaar wants to say. And maybe it’s _ his _ fault, too. Maybe if he could bring himself to love all of humanity, these things wouldn’t happen. But Skwisgaar is selfish. Unmoved by the deaths of faceless millions. Only a few enjoy the powerful protection his heart is capable of granting. He ponders this conundrum as his fret hand traces Toki’s scars. 

“How comes dhey don’ts heals?” Toki asks him, after a while. 

Skwisgaar frowns in thought. “I don’ts knows.”

“When we touches a lot, you heals me all overs,” says Toki. “Yous always doings it, even dhough I’s not injured or anyt’ing. Like yous trying to keeps me as porfect and healthy as possibles. Excepts for dat part. Dat parts never heals.”

Skwisgaar probes gently at Toki’s back, testing a theory. “Unlikes deh mortals,” he rumbles, “I believes you ams uniquely capables to be resisting my powers. Yous only as much heals as you wants to be. Porhaps dese marks don’ts heals because yous wishes to keeps dem.”

Toki’s features scrunch. “Why woulds I wants dat?” he asks. His throat constricts with a little hiccup of sadness. He frowns down into the shadows where their bodies connect, and his expression darkens. “Unless maybes I desorves dem.”

“No,” says Skwisgaar. “Don’t says dat.” He kisses Toki’s forehead. “Listens, Toki,” he murmurs. “Ifs it really ams deh ends of deh worlds… Den we’s gotta figures dese t’ings out real soons.” 

“What t’ings?” 

“You knows what,” he says gently. 

Toki’s mouth trembles. “Aw mans,” he says. “I don’ts wanna thinks abouts nonna dat now. Why can’ts I just enjoys dis for a little whiles?” He buries his face in Skwisgaar’s hair. “I’s afraid dat when I goes all deh way ins… when deh evils takes deh holds of me… I’s gonna lose all dis.” 

“No,” says Skwisgaar. “No.” He feels Toki’s hot tears against his scalp. 

“I just wanna enjoys dis,” Toki repeats. “Finally beings… close wit’ you, likes dis. Yous so good and kinds, now,” he marvels. “You tries yous whole lifes _ nots _ to be, but deh lights takes over you, and nows you can’ts helps it.” He laughs miserably. “Dat ams deh same way for me, Skwisgaar: I tries my whole lifes nots to be evils, but soon deh darkness takes over me and I won’ts has no choice.”

“Yous wrong,” Skwisgaar hums. “I can fights deh nice-ohrges, if I really wants to. I’s choosings to follows dem on porpose. And even dhough deh whole univorse ams pourings deh niceness inzto me, I’s still not really dat good at it.” He kisses a spot behind Toki’s ear. "Yous gonna be... what yous wantings to be."

“I sees myself in dreams,” Toki rasps. “I sees myself… cold and empties. My body ams like a walkings corpse. I can’ts feels anyt’ing good—”

“No,” says Skwisgaar. “Yous gonna be fines. Dat aint’s gonna happen.” 

“How does you know? You keeps saying dat—”

“I just knows. Yous gonna be ohkay. Yous gonna be differents, but yous still gonna be Toki.”

“But how does you _ know?_”

“Because!” Skwisgaar snaps. “Because you has to be. You just_ has _ to be. Dere ams no way I’s deh fucking God of Lifes, what can cures anyone from anyt’ing, excepts for deh one porson I_—_” He lifts himself off Toki’s chest, bearing down on him. “_It just can’t fucking work that way, Toki!_”

Toki sighs. “_I hope you’re right_,” he says. “_But I just can’t see any way out of this. When I close my eyes_, _ I see my future. I see Death._” His eyelashes are spiked with moisture. His expression is that of the medieval saints being patiently flayed alive— at least to Skwisgaar’s knowledge of medieval art, which, granted, comes primarily from album covers. 

“_I don’t fear Death_,” says Skwisgaar. He pins Toki to the mattress, his fingers crackling with sparks that show bright white in the semi-darkness. “_I will compose music for Death. I will make Death itself come, screaming my name._” He grips Toki’s chin, forcing Toki to look him in the eye. “_I am a fucking god_.” 

Skwisgaar kisses him long and hard, as if in a kind of sanctification, as if he can suck the evil out through Toki’s mouth. He sinks onto his elbows, descending again until his chin hits Toki’s breastbone, and gathers Toki tightly against him. 

“_Okay_,” Toki shudders. “_I believe in you_.” They both suspend their disbelief long enough to let this thought lull them to sleep. 

  
  
  
  
  


Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised at this point, but it still takes Skwisgaar a good minute to get his bearings as he finds himself in yet another too-vivid dream world, his body acting all fluorescent and untrustworthy again. He’s standing at the foot of a mountain specked with conifers, from which a vast, igneous landscape pours and stretches like black taffy in every direction. The cave mouth in front of him is hung with a veil of sulphurous, lead-grey smoke, and resounds with what could be the distant wailing of the damned, or maybe just a trick of the wind. A kettle of dog-sized vultures circle overhead. Cool, Murderface, he thinks. Great imagination, you hack. He rolls his eyes, taking a deep breath and plunging himself into the heat and darkness.

Inside, Skwisgaar ruffles his wings, shaking the soot from his gleaming, sugar-white feathers. The clang of metal on metal echoes through the cavernous heart of the mountain. Careful of the veins of lava underfoot, his skin prickling unpleasantly as he is sprayed with flecks of molten rock, he follows the sound to its source.

“Oh fuck—” Murderface looks up from pounding a glowing iron to gape at him, hammer in hand. “Come on, brain,” he groans, tucking his chin against his shoulder. “Why are you picturing Schkwischgaar like that?”

Skwisgaar smirks. “It ain’ts yous imaginachkun,” he says, fanning his wings. “I reallies ams dis radiants.” 

“What a minute,” says Murderface, struck with some sudden, supranatural understanding. “You—? How are you…?” His eyes open and shut with exaggerated slowness. “You’re really here,” he says, bewildered. “It’sch really you, in my dream, schomehow.”

“Dat’s right.” Skwisgaar approaches the anvil, upon which Murderace has been hammering a rod of incandescent iron. “Dis amn’t no ordinies dream. Yous havings a visions.” 

“What the hell?” Murderface grips the iron as it turns from molten orange to black, apparently unaffected by the temperature, and holds it in front of himself as a weapon. “Get outta my schubconciousch, you pervert!” he cries. He backs away, circling the anvil as Skwisgaar advances towards him, amused. Murderface too, is different here, and though he’s hardly beautiful, it’s easy to count almost change as an improvement. A large pair of curved ram’s horns adorn his head, and his hair touches his shoulders in a mane of wooly curls— on top of which, he sports a truly impressive beard. 

“Relax,” says Skwisgaar. “I’ms here to helps you, idiot.” He crosses his arms, taking stock of Murderface’s volcanic forge. “What ams all dis, hah?” he asks. 

Murderface takes several deep, startled breathes, shooting plumes of smoke from his nostrils like a dragon, before slowly lowering his hammer. “I dunno,” he says, sheepish. “It’sch juscht… a recurring dream I have.” He tilts the iron so that Skwisgaar can get a better look at it. It’s a hilt, Skwisgaar notes, for a sword. Murderface scans his expression for approval. “Check thisch out,” he says, holding the empty hilt aloft. A tongue of orange fire leaps from the base, and he waves it around in lieu of a blade. 

“You shoots fires?” Skwisgaar rubs his chin. “Dat ams… pretties good.” 

Murderface shrugs. He lays the hilt on the anvil, heating it to incandescence in his palm before giving it a few more whacks with the hammer to even it out. “It’sch juscht a dream,” he says, glaring down at his handiwork. “It’sch a dumb power-fantaschy, okay? Go ahead; Tell me how pathetic I am.”

“Mordorface,” Skwisgaar sighs, watching the bassist’s tough, soot-blackened fingers work the pliant, glowing metal. Murderface looks… healthier, this way. Less… abjectly miserable, than in real life. His arms are steady and strong, and for once they are free of the many scabs and (accidental?) cuts he regularly incurs from spinning his butterfly knife. “I t’ink you knows dat ams not why I’s here,” Skwisgaar says. He lowers his voice, like he’s trying to catch a shy cat. “Why don’ts you takes care of youself?”

Murderface snorts. “What’sch the point?” he says, without looking up. 

“Wells, for one t’ing,” says Skwisgaar, “yous in a bands, and yous gots a responskibility. Yous gotta shows up and at least pretends to plays deh bass. I can’ts records over you when we’s lives.” He pauses, trying to read the set of Murderface’s shoulders. Maybe, Skwisgaar thinks, if he’s quick enough, he can just grab the guy and cure his stupid ‘self-esteem’ with magic, before it gets him horribly burned. That would certainly be a lot easier than ‘talking it out.’ On the other hand, Skwisgaar despises half-measures. “And for anothers t’ing,” he ventures, “you gots dese pals what cares about you.” 

Murderface puts his tools down and crosses his arms. “Why are you talking to me like thisch?” he asks. “Thisch isch just too fucking weird. What are you trying to do?”

“I ams _ tryings _ to be nice,” Skwisgaar huffs.

“That’sch dischguschting— Why?” 

“You may nots knows dis, but Dethklok ams havings to saves humanities from deh ends of deh worlds.” 

“Huh?”

“Ja, likes, deh reals azpockle-hypse.”

“Ffffffffuck that, I don’t give a schit about humanity. I hate humanity!” 

“Ja, I knows, dildos. Dat’s because you hates _ youself_. So. We gotta fix dat forst.” 

Murderface gawps at him in disbelief. “You’re schaying you— _ you! _ —came to vischit me in a dream, like the Ghoscht of Chrischtmasch Pascht, to help me _ feel better about myschelf? _Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Wells,” says Skwisgaar, “we needs you. Yousa parta deh band… Even dough you hardly contributes anyt’ing musically speakings.” 

Murderface gives a short, sharp laugh. “Thisch isch you trying to be _ nische?_”

Skwisgaar shrugs. “Takes it or leaves it.” 

The river of lava behind them belches, showering them with sparks, to which Murderface is evidently immune. Skwisgaar stares him down, refusing to flinch at the pain, his skin healing almost instantly from the spray of tiny, superficial burns. “You know what you schound like, right?” Murderface asks. He tosses his wild mess of curly hair in a rough imitation of Skwisgaar's neat swish. “Hi, I’m Schkwischgaar Schkwigelf: I’m a once-in-a-generation muschical talent, _ and _ I look like a fucking schuper model, _ and _ by the way, no big deal, I _ alscho _have magic powersch. I’m here to help you feel better about yourschelf, you worthlessch peische of schit!”

“Eugh.” Skwisgaar rolls his eyes. “Boring. Yous jealous of me? Joins deh clubs.” He flexes his wings, pretending to yawn. “I t’ink we both knows dat amn’t deh real cause of yous ‘selfs-ezkemes’ problems.”

“It’sch not a big myschtery,” says Murderface. “Look at me: I’m repulschive. Juscht being in the schame room asch you isch humiliating.”

Dog-faced, certainly, Skwisgaar muses. But ‘repulsive’ seems harsh. In this robust and heavily-bearded form, Murderface even has a sort of scruffy charm. “I won’ts denies dat porhaps I has a cortain adzvantage in deh looks departsments,” says Skwisgaar, “but I also, you knows, puts in deh efforts. You t’inks my hairs just falls like dat?” he asks, indicating his immaculate s-shaped waves. “Dat ams like, ten differents produckt right dere.”

“Ohwow, thanksch,” Murderface sulks. “Jeezch, I schwear— you have no idea what it’sch like to be ugly.”

Skwisgaar curls his lip. “Spares me, dis, eugh, selfs-pities routines.” He starts counting off on his fingers: “You coulds brushes yous fucking teefs, idiot. Takes a fucking showers. I can t’inks of like ten t’ings rights off deh tops of mine brains dat you coulds be doings to makes youself less of, eh, bridge troll.”

“Yeah, right,” Murderface scoffs. “Women love you becausche of your _ schampoo_; I’m schure that’sch what it isch.” He makes to turn away.

“No.” Skwisgaar extends a massive wing, blocking him in. “Deh ladies likes me because I’ms confidents, I treats dem nice, and most importantlies, I makes dem _ come_.” 

“‘Causche you’re the greatschet guitarischt in the world!” says Murderface. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, becausche everything isch easchy for you!”

“Why everyone t’inks dat abouts me?” Skwisgaar asks, exasperated. “It ams bullshits!” He withdraws from Murderface, feeling his shoulders slump. “I ams deh best, because I _ works hards _ for it,” he says wearily. “I prackstice every fuckings day. And I don’ts does it to makes you and Toki feels bad. I does it because— Because I _ has _ to.” He rakes both hands over his face, muttering, “Probablies ams… diagnosables or somet’ink.”

Murderface strokes his beard in thought. “I guessch… I juscht don’t get you, man,” he says after a while. “I’ve alwaysch thought, ‘How isch it even posschible that he’sch schuch a scheething baschket-casche? If I wasch that guy, I’d never worry about anything.’” He stands next to Skwisgaar, staring into the river of lava. “You know... when me and Nathan firscht found you, we couldn’t believe our luck. I mean, what were you even doing in fucking Tampa? You coulda been anywhere. You woulda been a fucking _ schtar _ anywhere. Why did you even give a couple of broke loschers like usch the time of day?” 

Skwisgaar shrugs. Smiles. “I liked yous sound.” 

“That’sch it?” 

“Dat was deh only thing whats ever really matters to me.” He looks at his feet, filled with a kind of pleasant heartsickness. “Music amn’ts just my jobs, Mordorface,” he says. “It amn’ts just a t’ing I’s good ats. It’s… my reason for stayings alives. It’s what I has, insteads of other people.”

“But— But you can have _ anyone_. That’sch what I don’t underschtand.” 

Skwisgaar closes his eyes. “It don’ts works like dat, for me, ouaky?” he says softly. “I can’ts really… knows people. Or maybe, it torns out I cans: It ams just real hards, and it ams takings me a real long times. You knows Dethklok ams, likes… deh closest t’ing I’s ever hads to actual friends, rights? Dat’s why I’s telling you all dis: You believes everybody ams lookings down on you all deh times, but yous wrongs. We’s all miserables wit’ our own bullishits mentals problems; No one ams even thinkings abouts you!”

“Wow.” Murderface blinks. “You know what? That… actually _ doesch _ kinda make me feel better.”

“Pffft, ha!” Skwisgaar grins. “I knew its! I’s gonna be great at dis ‘beings nice’ t’ing.” His wings ruffle reflexively. He can feel himself glowing brighter in satisfaction. 

“Oh yeah?” says Murderface. “I thought you schaid it _ waschn’t _‘a thing.’” 

A horrific scream pierces the air, and they both whirl around, searching for the source of it. 

“Isch that…?” Murderface looks up at the ceiling of the cave. “That schounds like…”

Skwisgaar freezes. “_Toki_.”

  
  
  
  


He opens his eyes. He’s lying on his stomach in the hotel bed, blankets tangled around his legs. Toki’s scarred back is visible through the open bathroom door, heaving over the toilet, his clammy, naked body shuddering with sobs.

“Toki!” Skwisgaar scrambles to his feet. 

“Stays back—” Toki gurgles. Black bile is spilling down his chin. He grips the toilet bowl, the pebbles of his vertebrae standing out through his taut skin as he vomits up liters of what looks like soy sauce. 

Skwisgaar glances out the window. It’s still night. The air is charged with cosmic darkness. An infomercial for ceramic knives is playing on the muted television, the signal cutting in and out as Toki’s power expands and contracts throughout the room. “Ohkay,” says Skwisgaar. “Dis ams whats we’s gonna do. We’s gonna go, right now, into deh middles of deh deserts—” He gropes on the dark floor for his rumpled clothes, pulling them on and gathering his phone and hotel key card into his pockets. “—where dere amn’t no peoples,” he’s saying. “And we’s gonna go takes care of dis once and for always.”

Toki shakes his head no, without turning around. His skin is blueish and shiny with sweat, his skeleton contorting like it’s trying to escape its flesh prison. “Please,” he begs. “_It’s not fair. I need more time._”

Skwisgaar enters the bathroom. “_I know it hurts_,” he says. His hands hover over Toki’s naked, straining ribs. “_But it’ll be over soon. Soon you’ll be on the other side of this._” 

“_Soon I’ll be untouchable_,” he says. He draws his legs towards his chest, crushing his face into his knees. “_Everything I touch will turn to dust_.” 

“Don’t says dat.” Skwisgaar reaches for him. “Dat’s not true.” 

Toki surges to his feet, shoving him away. “Dhey was right about me,” he growls. “I ams a demon.”

“No yous not.”

“And you’s deh answers to my prayers,” Toki continues. His eyes are bloodshot, his face smeared with black vomit. He looks demented. “I prays for so longs, and tries so hards to be goods, dat even dough it ams umpossibles to escapes my demons natures… I ams beings rewardeds for tryings. I recieves deh mercy of deh angels,” he whispers. “You ams sents down to offers me deh littles relief from deh endless darkness.” His blueish fingers waver in midair. “Only somethings so pures cans endure my evils touch….” His gaze snaps to attention. “You has to get outta here!”  
  


“Comes wit’ me,” says Skwisgaar. “Gets some clothe ons. We takes care of dis outsides.”

“No,” Toki shakes his head emphatically. “No. You has to go nows, before I loses control, and horts you agains.” He looks down at his hands, the veins in his arms straining against the surface of his corpse-blue skin. His heart is pounding, dark and low, vibrating his entire frame. “I can’ts keeps takings dis out on you,” he says. “T’rowings you arounds likes deh ragdolls. I’s sure most demons don’ts gets a chance like dis. I can’ts be takings it for granteds!”

“Toki!” Skwisgaar protests. “Yous being unrationals. You can’ts horts me!”

“Yes I cans!” Toki growls. “I can’ts kills you, but I _ cans _ horts you. Just because you heals, don’ts means it ams ohkay for me to horts you! You still feels pains— And if I keeps hortings you, den I really wills be deh monsters, and I won’ts desorves you!” 

Skwisgaar swallows. Words? He’s got this. He’s got words. “_You don’t have to earn this_,” he says. “_You don’t have to prove anything. This isn’t a test. I’m sorry for… everything I’ve ever said or done that made it seem like this was a test_.” 

Toki grips the sink, his shoulders beginning to heave again. “Gets out,” he says.

“No.”

“Now!”

“Only if you comes wit’ me.”

Something inside of Toki bursts. He shoves Skwisgaar in the chest, with bruising, supernatural strength. “_Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself_,” he recites, his eyes showing white as he backs Skwisgaar over the threshold. The bathroom mirror shatters, mini shampoos exploding on the marble counter behind him like water balloons. The television cuts to roaring static. “_And they enter in and dwell there. And the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation._” He flings open the door, and before Skwisgaar can react, Toki sets upon him to wrestle him out into the hallway. 

“Stuipds— fuckings, dildos!” Skwisgaar grits out, struggling against Toki’s iron grip. He is strong now, much stronger than he was as a mortal, but an immortal Toki is stronger still. He stumbles in the hallway, recovering just in time to see the door slam in front of him. “Fucks!” He hurls himself against it. Fumbling in his pocket for the key card, he tries it four times before remembering that it’s the key to his own room, not Toki’s. “Dont’s does dis,” he pleads. “Toki, don’ts fuckings does dis.” No answer. He glances around the empty hallway, wondering if he can maybe break the door down if he just keeps slamming his body against it until his bones shatter. Pain is only temporary, he reasons, whereas Toki’s transformation will be permanent. And if it doesn’t go right, if he isn’t there to _ make _it go right—

Think, stupid. There should be at least one Klokateer standing guard, by the elevators. He’ll help. He’ll take the door off its hinges, if Skwisgaar tells him Toki’s in danger. 

Buoyed by this thought, Skwisgaar takes off down the corridor. He rounds the corner, and then another, room numbers descending as he flies past them. But even before he makes it to the elevators, he can tell that something is very wrong. That same sense of doom falls over him like a shadow— That empty sky, the lack of clouds— They shouldn’t have come here at all. 

The klokateer is slumped against the seam of the elevator doors. Asleep, as it were, in some blood. His throat has been swiftly and silently cut. Skwisgaar moves, instinctively, to revive him, but before he can summon the lightning, there are several sets of hands upon him, grabbing him from behind. Kicking and thrashing, he is dragged into the elevator opposite; It takes two men, and two women, silent and zombie-like, yet ruthlessly determined, to wrestle him to the floor. 

“Who the fuck is you?!” he yells, as one of the men slams his head against the gold and glass of the elevator wall. One of the women hits the ground floor button before turning to glare at him. All four of them, Skwisgaar notices with a lurch of recognition, are wearing tattered Dethklok t-shirts. 

When the doors open, they drag him on his knees into the lobby. The ground floor is littered with the bodies of casino staff and patrons, soaking the tacky blue and green carpet with blood. Naturally, there are no clocks on the walls, but Skwisgaar figures it’s about four in the morning. No one is likely to walk in on this horrific scene for at least another couple of hours. 

A pair of leather shoes appears in front of him, and one of the women yanks on his hair, forcing him to look up. “Mangus?” he sneers in disbelief. 

His ex-bandmate smiles, and reaches into his jacket, unsheathing a long hunting knife. 

“Whats happens to you, hah?” Skwisgaar spits. “You looks like shit.”

“And _ you_,” Magnus marvels, using the blade to lift Skwisgaar’s chin, his one good eye dilating as he studies Skwisgaar’s face like a treasure map. “You look _ exactly _the same.” He chuckles darkly. “But that makes sense, doesn’t it? If the rumors are true…” Skwisgaar hisses as the edge is dragged across his cheek, the bite of the knife followed by Magus’s rough thumb swiping away the blood. “Oh my,” says Magus, watching in fascination as the skin mends itself right in front of him. Laughter shakes him, and as he brings the thumb to his mouth, tasting Skwisgaar’s blood, he sighs in satisfaction: “Who knew revenge could be so sweet?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is structured like an actual season of Metalocalypse, in that it mainly consists of the characters dicking around doing nothing, until suddenly the plot arrives out of nowhere at the very end.


	9. Chapter 9

The trunk of Magus’s car smells like sour milk. Gripped by intermittent surges of frustration, Skwisgaar kicks his boots against the lid, to no effect. His long limbs are pretzeled up in the tiny space, anger and panic bringing a shimmer of static to the surface of his skin. It’s humiliating, on top of everything else: What kind of god is thwarted by a trunk lock? 

He has no idea where they’re taking him, but acceleration tells him they’ve just pulled onto the highway. Curled on his side, he measures his breathing and reviews his predicament. They took his phone and left it in the middle of the desert. Then they held him down, and beat him bloody, and threw him into the trunk of Magnus’s car— the same vintage Cadillac in Easter egg-yellow that Skwisgaar remembers him driving, now notably the worse for wear. Skwisgaar probes his bloodied mouth, testing to see if his loose teeth will snap back into place. If they don’t, will he grow new ones, like a shark? There’s still so much he doesn’t know about his body.

Superficial cuts and bruises vanish quickly, and whatever internal damage they’ve dealt him seems to be taking care of itself pretty well. He rubs his sore shoulder, welcoming the hot, tingling energy that penetrates his tissues, combing each individual fiber back into place. If he’d spent the past several months cultivating his superhuman strength, rather than his superhuman guitar playing reflexes— well, then he wouldn’t be Skwisgaar. But he also wouldn’t be in this situation.

If only he could call a bolt of lightning down on Magus to smite him. In its raw form, the lifeforce would vaporize a mere mortal like him into a bloody mist. Unfortunately, Skwisgaar only knows how to draw the raw energy into his own body, where it’s refined and converted into healing. It’s like inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide: He can’t help it.

He wishes he knew what they wanted from him. Sweat cools on his skin, old fears prickling along his spine. Magnus spoke of revenge. He seemed strung-out, capable of anything. 

The man has always rubbed Skwisgaar the wrong way.

He remembers the day when Nathan and Murderface approached him at a dive in Tampa whose name now escapes him, trying to poach him from Smugly Dismissed. Skwisgaar had been all too happy to follow them into a back room to snort a of couple lines and listen to some of their demo tapes, accustomed as he was to the routine of being courted, of flitting promiscuously from one band to another without even reliably managing to learn his bandmates’ names. So used to Americans getting his own name wrong, that he didn’t bother to correct them when he was introduced to Magnus as ‘Skeletor.’ 

As Dethklok’s original lead guitarist, Magnus naturally had veto power over any potential recruits. He’d seemed affable, relaxed. Happy to give Skwisgaar a fair hearing. He’d reached for his Les Paul, ashing a cigarette in a Solo cup, ready to dance.

Show me what you’ve got, he’d said, tossing Skwisgaar a series of arpeggios. Straightening, as Skwisgaar matched him chord-for-chord. Grinning, as Skwisgaar leapt over him, riffing, improvising, reincorporating his melody lines. Magnus was experienced and technically skilled; But Skwisgaar was _ possessed_. There could be no lasting peace between them. 

You’re pretty good, kid, he’d said.

Fuck you, Skwisgaar smirked. I’m _ great_. 

Dethklok had exactly the kind of sound he’d been looking for, and at first, everything had seemed cool. They’d all gotten blitzed together, talked about the future, inducted him into the band. It was only later, away from the others, that Magnus had cornered Skwisgaar in the bathroom, one hand holding a knife to his temple, the other twisting in his hair. His moist, tobacco-scented breath on the back of Skwisgaar’s neck.

Don’t you ever try to show me up like that again, he’d said, flipping the sink on to cover their voices. Or I might have to ruin that pretty face.

Skwisgaar was used to dealing with guitarists and their egos. Normally, he was smug, above all drama. His talent spoke for itself. But Magnus triggered something in him— A part of him that had learned, from an early age, to fear men. Okay, he’d heard himself whisper, watching grayish tap water disappear into the drain.

He can’t afford to succumb to that fear now. All the men who have ever made him feel small and defenseless, including Magnus— They are mere mortals. Skwisgaar is a god. 

His fingers twitch, craving their usual source of anxiety-relief, and he clenches his fists, drawing on the ambient lifeforce to soothe himself in the absence of his guitar. The thought of Toki, alone and afraid as he is stripped of his mortal body and forced into some cold and terrifying new form, closes Skwisgaar’s throat. Surely, the corpselike, white-eyed god of Death will recognize him, when they meet again. Surely, the vacant, heartless gaze will clear— surely, the grim creature will melt under Skwisgaar’s golden touch, babbling his relief and gratitude, offering assurances that he is still Toki, inside.

Skwisgaar traces his fingers over the inside of the lid, scanning its grooves and rivets in the dark. “Hangs in dere,” he says aloud, on the off chance Toki can somehow hear him. With a fresh surge of determination, he cranks the volume on his inner-hum, charging his muscles with lightning until they burn, and kicks the lid as hard as he can. Startled by the clang it makes, he reaches up to find he’s left a distinct crater in the steel. He tries again, and again, the metal warping under his blows, until the car comes to a sudden stop.

Skwisgaar hears several people getting out of the car at once. The trunk pops open, and before he can even try to make a break for it, he’s mobbed by Magnus’s goons. Three men hold him down, as a fourth tranqs him in the neck like a zoo animal. Any notion of his being a badass is short-lived. He collapses into the sand on the side of the road, strength draining from him as the drug hits his nervous system.

If Magnus is bothered by the damage to his car, he doesn’t show it. He stands over Skwisgaar’s limp body, whistling at the inside of the trunk. “That’s great,” he laughs. “That’s some… Superman shit.” Skwisgaar blinks up at him, but all he can make out is a hazy silhouette, backlit by the rising sun. “We’re about to find out just how super you are,” is the last thing he hears before his vision cuts to black. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted by a ceilingful of acoustic tile. He is pinned, cruciform, to a plywood drum riser, loops of steel stage-rigging cable cutting into his wrists and ankles. It only takes him a minute to recognize their old rehearsal space, though the place looks condemned. Skwisgaar doesn’t consider himself sentimental, in general, but there are some things you just don’t forget. He turns his head to find the doorway barricaded with chains, and he can practically see Toki, hat-in-hand, walking through it. Fingers of pink sunlight poking between the boarded windows signal that it’s still early in the morning. 

He yanks on the restraints, trying in vain to summon the impossible strength that was briefly his. His body aches in protest, refusing to let him pull that trick again without giving it a chance to recover. 

Magnus emerges from the shadows, flanked by zoned-out former Dethklok fans. There are dozens more of them, huddled along the perimeter of the large room. 

“What’s wrong wit’ all dese guys, hah?” Skwisgaar asks him. “Dhey’s all high or somethings?” He shakes his head ruefully. “I know beings calleds ‘crazy’ ams a bit of a sore spots for you; But I has to say, dis ams givings me some real Mansons Families vibes.”

Magnus smiles down at him. “Ya know,” he says, “that whole too-cool-for-school act only works on people who don’t actually know you.” 

One of his entourage wordlessly wheels up an A.V. cart bearing a canvas utility roll stuffed with different kinds of knives, like some sort of makeshift surgical trolley. Skwisgaar watches Magnus select one, feeling a spike of adrenaline. This is not a promising development. “Oukay, seriouslies,” he urges. “Why ams you doing dis? What ams dis abouts?”

Magnus holds a stiletto at eye level, like he’s examining the blade for flaws. “What’s this about?” he echoes. “You wanna know what this is _ about?_” He chuckles softly, as though at some private joke. “You replaced me with a fucking kid!” he screams, plunging the dagger through the center of Skwisgaar’s right palm.

Skwisgaar cries out, pressing his eye socket into his shoulder. The physical pain is almost exceeded by the psychological anguish of seeing one of his recurring nightmares literalized. The blade is lodged between his third and fourth metacarpals, severing his flexors and nailing his hand to the plywood beneath. It _ will _ heal, he reminds himself, chanting this mantra inside his head to beat back the despair threatening to swallow him. He _ will _play again.

“You wanted someone who’d be easy to control, right?” Magnus asks. “Someone who’d never threaten your fragile ego?” He picks up another stiletto, twirling it in his hand as he walks around to the other side of the riser. “Tell me: does Little Toki still idolize you, or is he smart enough to have seen through you by now?”

Skwisgaar seethes. “You keeps his name outta yous fuckings mouth!”

“Woah,” says Magnus. “Don’t tell me _that _particular fan theory is actually true.” He leans in close to study Skwisgaar’s burning face, his eyes crinkling with dark mirth. “Well, that’s just great. That warms my fucken heart,” he sneers. He drives the second dagger into Skwisgaar’s left hand, giving it a savage twist as Skwisgaar screams. “He seems kinda… stunted, though, doesn’t he?” Magnus asks, conversationally. “Is that it? Was he diddled as a kid, like you? Is that what brought you two sad freaks together?” 

Skwisgaar turns his head, hair falling across his face as he begins to softly cry. His skin is hot, light pooling in his chest, as he watches Magnus select a Bowie knife from his kit. The knowledge that whatever Magnus means to inflict on him will be repaired is a relief that might quickly become a horror. 

“He’s sloppy,” Magnus says. He drags the knife along the inside of Skwisgaar’s arm, watching the incision well with blood before sealing itself again. “Anyone who’s ever heard him live knows that’s really _ you _on the records.” He makes another cut, much deeper and proportionately slower to heal. He’s experimenting, toying with his captive. Skwisgaar clenches his teeth, struggling to stifle himself as the blade digs deeper still. “Why do you put up with it?” Magus asks. He sounds genuinely curious. “Why’d you let some grimy little punk ride your coattails?”

“You don’ts know…” Skwisgaar rasps, “what deh fucks yous talkings about.”

Magnus sighs, caressing Skwisgaar’s trembling fret hand with his own. He prods around the dagger, his calloused fingertips tracing fortune lines in Skwisgaar’s gored palm. “You’re so _ fucking _ talented, you know that?” he asks. Skwisgaar glares up at him, determined to be brave, for whatever it’s worth. “Of course, you think you’re the greatest,” says Magnus. “But I still wonder… if you really _ know_.” He taps the flat of the blade thoughtfully against his closed lips. “It’s not your speed,” he says, sitting casually on the edge of the riser, like they’re just havin’ a little Rock Talk. “I mean, speed is one thing— But what really fucks _ me _ up is your ear for composition. You’ve got that shit that can’t be fucken taught.” He reaches over to brush Skwisgaar’s hair out of his face, gazing down at him with a kind of bizarre tenderness. “Not to be, like, a total Salieri,” he says, “but I dunno if you even _ realize _ it.” 

Skwisgaar shudders, taking short breaths through his nose. The knife plunges into his forearm again, sawing through tendons, blood jetting from the severed radial artery. Offdensen will find him. Someone will come for him. All he has to do is endure. For Toki’s sake, he must endure. 

“Look at me,” says Magnus. Skwisgaar stares at a spot of his own blood, drying on the sleeve of Magnus’s jacket. “My liver’s shot. I got no fucken depth-perception. Can’t play like I used to: Arthritis, like my old man. He was a mechanic,” says Magnus. “Taught me everything I know about cars.” Nostalgia clouds his gaze. “Good man.”

He points with the Bowie knife. “Now, look at you,” he says darkly. “All the talent in the world, all the fame, and sex, and money in the world— It’s wasted on you.” His posture is menacing, but his expression is pained. “You can’t even appreciate it,” he spits. “Immortality, perfection, the gift of the gods— _ All that_, wasted on _ you_. You joyless, obsessive-compulsive freak.”

The pain peaks, until Skwisgaar feels like he’s about to vomit, before receding again. The wound stops bleeding, clotting up quickly. It’s too deep to heal right before Magnus’s eyes, if that’s what he wanted to see. But in a day or so, it’ll be gone. “Whats… does you wants… from me?” he asks.

“The same thing everyone in the whole damn world wants from you, kiddo,” says Magnus. He leans in close, and makes an exploding firework gesture with his hand. “That x-factor. That fucken magic.” Rummaging around the second shelf of his cart, he produces an empty glass jar and a pair of stainless steel forceps. “They say you can’t bottle it…” he shrugs. “We’ll see.”

Skwisgaar watches him unscrew the jar, stomach roiling with fear. “Deh fuck is you talkings about?” he asks. Zoned-out maniacs are slowly moving towards them from every corner of the rehearsal hall, encircling the drum riser in sweaty anticipation. 

“I went to the crossroads,” says Magnus, “lookin’ to meet the Devil. But I met somethin’ else, instead. Somethin’ a whole lot freakier.” The sinews in his neck stand out as he silently works his jaw. “They call Him… The Half Man. And I promised Him…” he taps the side of the jar with his forefinger, “...your heart.”

“You crazy— fuckings— mothersfucker—!” Skwisgaar gnashes, throwing sparks. He pounds the back of his head against the plywood, struggling uselessly against the restraints. “Yous gonna die for dis,” he hisses. “Yous gonna die and no one ams gonna to remembers you, because yousa fuckings hack! Toki, ons his sloppiest day, ams ten-times deh guitarist yous evers—” He is silenced by the sudden introduction of a blade into his gut.

Magnus’s lips peel back, revealing his gums, as he raises the dripping Bowie knife high above his head. “Dethklok is a scourge on this world,” he growls, viciously stabbing Skwisgaar’s abdomen again, and again, spraying his snarling face with flecks of gore. “I will be remembered— I will be _ celebrated_— for doing my part to destroy them.” 

Skwisgaar’s mouth fills with acid and blood. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream. Yet the light is humming through his bones, and he knows, with terrible certainty, that it won’t let him die. His head lolls insensibly to one side, and all he can see are the blurry outlines of the wordless cultists, crowding in to watch as he is gutted like a sacrificial virgin. 

“You see,” says Magnus, panting with exertion, “it’s _ you _ that’s been protecting Dethklok all this time. You’re the reason they’ve survived so many things that should have killed them. That’s why He wants your heart: Because without you, the others will be vulnerable.” Wiping the Bowie knife on his pants, he swaps it for a drop pointed dagger. “Now, unfortunately,” he says, lowering his voice, “this isn’t gonna kill you. Only downside to immortality— You can’t fucken die.” He sketches the tip of the knife across Skwisgaar’s sternum. “But don’t worry: Your suffering won’t last forever. In exchange for your heart, He has promised to transfer your powers to me. Then you’ll be dead, and it'll be my problem.”

In his mind’s eyes, Skwisgaar finally sees Him: A hulking man in a dark wool suit, framed by writhing tongues of white light, his head slowly rotating an impossible one-hundred and eighty degrees. Instantly, with every cell in his body, Swkisgaar senses this odious being’s intentions, knowing that it is his very nature and purpose to oppose them. The god of Life within him stirs, and even for the likes of Magnus Hammersmith, he feels a tug of sympathy. A mortal man, of feeble character, and ill fortune, Magnus can have no comprehension of what he’s gotten himself into. “He ams… lyings… to you...” Skwisgaar manages, through the blinding pain. “He wills… destroys you. Destroys _ everyt’ing_. Only Dethklok… can stops Him.” 

“Maybe,” Magus nods. His one good eye looks sad, resigned. He plunges the dagger into Skwisgaar’s chest. 

The garage door reels open, chains exploding in a spray of shrapnel, and suddenly it feels like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Toki doesn’t walk, but _ glides_, as silently as smoke, surrounded by a droning aura of desolate cosmic stillness. The crowd of cultists part for him as he approaches Magnus. “You,” he says, in a voice like gravity, “has mades a terribles mistake.”

“_You!_” Magnus pivots to face him, swinging the dagger. “How—? How the hell did you get here so fast?”

Skwisgaar strains towards them, desperate to catch Toki’s eye. But Toki is staring straight ahead at Magnus, his expression serene. “I ams a god,” he says. “I has mysterious ways.”

“You are a monster,” says Magnus, his eyes bulging and glassy. “Can’t you see what Dethklok’s done to the world? And it all started when _ you _joined!” He points the dagger accusingly, his pick hand beginning to shake. “Ten years of madness and mayhem— Hell on Earth— People have lost their minds— Worshipping at the altar of their own annihilation—”

Toki continues his slow advance, unfazed. “Because you once rescues me,” he pronounces. “I gives you deh choice: Leaves now, and I shall spares you. Makes one wrong moves, and alls of you shall dies.”

“But _ I _ haven’t lost my mind,” Magnus rants, ignoring him. “_I _ see Dethklok for what it really is. And I will never surrender to it!” He lunges, jabbing wildly, and Toki catches him by the wrist. 

“So bes it,” says Toki. The concrete floor begins to vibrate, dust and gravel rising into the air. He is magnificent, Skwisgaar thinks, lit from within by a pale blue glow, his hair floating like he’s under water, his pupiless eyes delivering the final judgement of the Norns. 

Magnus freezes, transfixed, the knife clattering from his limp hand, as his soul is extinguished. All around him, his followers’ lifeless bodies keel to the floor, snuffed out like a cakeful of birthday candles in a single wishing breath. 

Toki rips out the daggers pinning Skwisgaar’s hands and tears through the steel cables that bind him like they’re made of dental floss. “_Ohno— Ohfucks— _What’s dey done to you?!” he cries. 

Skwisgaar opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out at first is more blood, and a couple of his teeth. Every breath is excruciating. But he can feel the lightning racing along his spine, the tingling heat pouring into every extremity; Already, he is being remade. “S’oukay,” he slurs, nuzzling Toki’s hand. 

“Don’ts leaves me,” says Toki, sinking to his knees. “I can’ts does nonna dis wit’outs you.”

“Can’ts die,” says Skwisgaar, eyelids fluttering. “Even ifs I… wantseds to…” He flicks his gaze toward the gory ruin of his belly. “Goods as new, soons…” he promises. “Just needs… rest.” He ventures a weak smile. “You saves me from… much worse…” 

“I hads to,” says Toki. “Yous my only hope—” He stops, looking down at his own still-glowing body. “No…” he breaths, hands flying to his chest. “_Nonononono—_”

“S’wrong?” Skwisgaar mutters, his consciousness beginning to slip.

“I’s never used it on porpose like dat befores. To k-kills,” Toki stammers. “I-I don’t knows how to torns it off!” A column of blue light descends from heaven to lift him off his feet like a tractor beam. “No!” He thrashes. “No, puts me down!” But the light engulfs him, ignoring his protests. “_It’s not fair!_” he wails. “_Just let me feel something good! Just this one thing!_” 

“_Toki!_” Skwisgaar reaches uselessly towards him. 

“_Skwisgaar!_” Toki screams. “_Help me! It’s— it’s gonna take everything away from me! I thought it would let me keep this one thing— Just one good feeling—” _His eyes are white floodlights. Blue veins climb his arms like ivy. 

Skwisgaar is desperate to get up, to do anything at all, but his heavy limbs won’t cooperate. The cosmic lifeforce doesn’t belong to him; Rather, he belongs to it: He is powerless to refuse the golden manna which saturates his wounded body, dragging him into a healing trance. 

“_I don’t want this,_” Toki moans, clawing at himself. “_I don’t wanna be this thing! Please, God— Let me out of this thing! Let me out!_” With a final whimper, his struggle is halted, and he hangs slack, mouth open, blinding white light pouring from within. There can be no bargaining with Death. 

  
  
  
  
  


Skwisgaar is standing in the aisle of an old Lutheran church below a stained-glass portrait of Jesus, motes of dust spiralling downward from the vaulted ceiling in a diagonal shaft of tinted sunlight. Before a stone altar, the dead body of an old woman lies in repose, surrounded by mourners in Norwegian folk-dress. Congregants brush past him in solemn silence, heedless of walking into his massive wings on their way to deposit bundles of lilies on the altar. He’s invisible to them, which is probably for the best. The last thing Skwisgaar needs is a bunch of Bible-thumpers getting in his face. His own resemblance to the archangels Raphael, Michael, and Gabriel, whose frescoed portraits line the walls, is not lost on him. 

You ever done it with a demon? he smirks up at them. I recommend it. 

A chorus of birdsong draws his ear, and he turns away from the funeral scene, leaving the warmth of the church for the graveyard outside. The sky is bright and colorless, and the ground is thick with powdery snow. It must be about minus-six degrees celsius, but he’s surprisingly comfortable in a sleeveless shirt. It’s a good thing his new body runs so hot, because he’d have a hell of a time getting these preposterous wings to accommodate a parka. Watching the churchyard birds congregate in the bows of a skeletal tree, he extends them to their fullest, a breathtaking span of easily four meters. They’re really pretty obtrusive, forcing him to adopt an exaggerated upright posture in order to walk properly, and they _ feel _incredibly weird. But it might be worth the trade-offs, if they’ll actually enable him to fly.

His ears prickle. Almost lost in the birdsong is a faint, plaintive wailing, like a track that’s been pushed all the way to the back of the mix. He follows the sound out of the churchyard, gliding on his wings down a snowy embankment, and into the woods below. A dirt path takes him to a little clearing, a few hundred meters from the foot of the hill, where the sound seems to originate. 

It’s a child, crying. Skwisgaar frowns, scanning the empty clearing. It sounds like it’s coming from under the snow. Under the ground. 

Scraping away the snow with his boot, he discovers a trap door. It’s a hand-dug root cellar, such as the Vikings might have used to store their turnips and onions. He crouches, raising his wings to keep them from dragging in the dirt, and holds his breath, listening. The muffled wailing cores him. He already knows what he’s going to find inside.

Unlatching the heavy door, he throws open the cellar and descends the rough-hewn wooden steps, tucking his wings close to his body to squeeze into the narrow room. The hole is deep, and lined with shelves for produce, but there’s nothing on them but a few dusty stoneware vessels and glass mason jars.

“_Toki?_” he whispers.

The little boy is huddled beneath a drab wool blanket in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. He stifles himself, turning to stare at Skwisgaar like a spooked rabbit. It’s hard to reconcile this fragment of a boy with the man Skwisgaar knows, but the eyes are unmistakable. In all his travels, he’s never seen another pair of eyes like them. 

Skwisgaar takes a cautious step towards the corner. The glow of his body is subtle in sunlight, but striking in the dark, and he hopes it doesn’t make him seem scary. The little boy looks petrified. 

“_It’s okay,_” says Skwisgaar. He kneels down, bringing them a bit closer to eye level. 

Toki stands, his chapped lips parting to reveal two missing baby teeth. “_Are you… a real angel?_” he marvels. His jaw is chattering from the cold, and his face is swollen from crying. He moves like he’s made of bruises. “_You know my name! Y-you came here… for m-me?_” 

As he steps forward into the light, feebly clutching his blanket, Skwisgaar bows his head and breaks down.

“_I’m sorry,_” says Toki. “_Don’t cry!_”

Skwisgaar crumples further, propping his hands on his knees, the ends of his hair skimming the packed-dirt floor. A little hand on his bare shoulder pulls a dry sob from him. 

“_Oh please, I’m sorry for what I did,_” Toki whimpers. “_Will God forgive me? I know I sh-shouldn’t have borrowed Henrik’s walkman. I know I shouldn’t listen to Satanic music—_” 

Skwisgaar pulls the little boy into his arms, flooding him with warmth and healing, sealing the still-fresh lacerations from his most recent beating, wishing away fatigue, dehydration, the beginnings of frostbite. “_You didn’t do anything wrong, Toki,_” he says, his voice thick with tears. 

Toki drops the blanket, throwing his arms around Skwisgaar’s neck. “_You’re so warm,_” he gasps, sagging with relief. “_I can’t believe— A real_ _angel! Did God send you? Did He hear my prayers?_” 

Snow floats in through the open trap door, fat, cottony flakes sticking in their hair, and Skwisgaar draws his wings protectively around them both. “_Tell me,_” he urges. “_What did you pray for?_”

Toki stills. “_I prayed for God to make me good, so my parents won’t have to punish me anymore,_” he says. “_I— I’ve been disobedient. Satan’s music led me astray. I wanted_—” He pulls back, hanging his head. “_I saw Henrik, a boy in town, playing his guitar, and I wanted—_” He rubs his eyes, his mouth scrunching with misery. “_I just don’t wanna be punished anymore._”

“_It’s okay,_” says Skwisgaar. “_You’re safe, with me. It’s okay now._” Little arms cling to him, growing stronger and surer in their grip every moment. The anguish is gone, replaced with beaming optimism and sweetness. Toki is so quick to trust, he knows. “_How old are you?_” Skwisgaar asks. 

Toki smiles, showing his gap teeth with pride. “_I’m ten._”

Skwisgaar looks past him, into the darkness. “_That means I’m seventeen, now,_” he says. “_A few hundred kilometers from here, I’m getting ready to leave home, and take the train to Göteborg, so I can learn how to be selfish._” He lowers his forehead to rest on Toki’s little shoulder. “_I should have been coming here, instead,_” he says. Little hands comfort him, combing his fluorescent golden hair. “_I should have come to rescue you. I should have heard your prayers, somehow. This power was inside me all along, and I suppressed it, when I should have been using it to protect you._” Skwisgaar feels sick. His own reasons for refusing his true nature— the things that happened to him, that crippled his ability to trust —seem shamefully insignificant in the face of what Toki has suffered. Toki deserves so much better than the callous, jaded version of him he’ll meet eight years from now, at a rehearsal hall on the outskirts of L.A. 

“_Come with me,_” says Skwisgaar, holding him by the shoulders. “_I’ll take you far away from this place. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again._” He wipes at his own eyes, trying to pull himself together. “_I’ll teach you how to play the guitar._”

Toki’s face lights up. “_You play guitar? Angels play guitar?!_”

Skwisgaar smiles. “_Not only that: I play death metal._”

Toki looks like he might faint from happiness. “_R-really?_” he squeaks. “_But my parents say it’s Satanic._”

“_Your parents are wrong,_” says Skwisgaar. “_Metal is awesome._”

Toki looks over his shoulder, glancing back at his favorite corner of his little, freezing, dirt-floor cell. “_Am I dead?_” he asks, his brow rippling with worry. “_Are you taking me to Heaven?_”

“_No._” Skwisgaar shakes his head. “_But I can take you anywhere on Earth._” He smooths Toki’s chin-length hair away from his face. “_Just close your eyes,_” he says. “_And picture where you wanna go._” 

Toki’s eyelids flutter, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

They’re in a music store. The air smells like polyester carpeting and Murphy’s oil soap. Late-eighties bubblegum radio hits float in over the sound system, and the walls are lined with gleaming rows of electric guitars. 

Toki tilts his head back to stare up at them, open-mouthed, his fingers taking on a covetous curl. His eyes fall on a candy-red Fender Stratocaster, and Skwisgaar stands behind him, beaming. “_Go ahead:_” says Skwisgaar, squeezing his shoulder. “_Pick one._” Not even his fierce Gibson brand-loyalty is enough to dampen the moment. 

“_Really?_” Toki turns around to blink up at him. 

“_Why not? I’m very powerful, you know,_” says Skwisgaar. “_I can give you anything you want._” He gestures grandly, sweeping Toki off his feet and spinning him around. “_Any guitar in the world! Gummy bears the size of actual bears! A solid gold telephone!_” he laughs, taken with sheer joy. 

“_You’re so nice_,” says Toki. “_I can’t believe— Why are you doing all this for me?_”

“_Because I love you,_” says Skwisgaar, hugging him close. “_I love you so, so much._” Why did he think this would be hard to say? It’s as simple as breathing. 

A man, a store clerk, approaches them, slack-jawed. Skwisgaar sets Toki down again and takes his hand. “_Relax, pal,_” he smirks, fluffing his wings. “_I’m not here for your soul or anything. We’re just in the market for a guitar._” 

The man doesn’t respond. A low, creaking sound issues from his throat, and without warning, his bottom jaw falls off. His body crumbles like chalk. 

Toki recoils. “_Nononono—_” he repeats, as the man dissolves into a pile of ashes at their feet. “_It’s me,_” he says, wrenching his hand from Skwisgaar’s grip. “_I’m sorry! I don’t know how to stop it! It’s me!_”

“_It’s okay,_” says Skwisgaar, reaching for him. “_I already know what you are. You belong with me. It’s okay._”

Toki backs away from him, frantically shaking his head. “_I can’t—_” he sobs. “_I wanna come with you. I love you back, already!_” His whole frame buckles, like someone just punched him in the stomach. “_But I can’t—_” He turns and runs.

Skwisgaar follows him out the door of the shop and onto the street, but he’s already lost sight of him in the crowd of villagers. “_Toki!_” he calls. The people around him are beginning to slur into each other, collapsing into heaps of black ashes. Trees and grass wither, cars and buildings corrode into formless lumps of rust. Everything is decaying into the same undifferentiated, swirling mass. 

Skwisgaar beats his wings, soaring high above the churning storm. “_Toki! Tooookiiii!_” He screams himself hoarse. But there’s no sign of the little boy. No sign of anything. There’s nothing but ashes, in every direction, for as far as he can see. 

The particles settle, a rolling, black landscape beneath a translucent white sky. Skwisgaar returns to earth, his boots crunching in the ashes. He buries his face in his hands, weeping. The back of his neck itches with dread. He knows he’s not alone. 

“_Where is Toki?_” he demands, squinting into the bright gray horizon.

“Somewhere you cannot reach him.” The Half Man materializes out of the fog, his long, white hair whipping in the wind. He’s a colossus, nearly three meters tall, with hands the size of boxing gloves. His pewter gaze comes to rest on one of Skwisgaar’s fine-boned wings. “Toki Wartooth is lost to you,” he hisses. “Without him, Dethklok is doomed, and your world is mine.” 

Skwisgaar squares his shoulders, defiant. “I don’ts believes you,” he says. “Toki will comes backs to me.”

The Half Man looms, his hand outstretched, splaying his long, grisly fingernails. “What a filthy creature you are,” he remarks, seizing Skwisgaar by the throat and hoisting him into the air. Skwisgaar flutters his wings, struggling like a trapped insect, clawing at the massive hand, desperate for breath. “And yet,” the Half Man sneers, “how fitting. After all: biological life is simply an advanced form of whoredom.” 

With his other hand, he reaches for Skwisgaar’s wing, pinching the join of humerus and scapula between his thick forefinger and thumb. “Dethklok’s reckoning is nigh,” he says, snapping the delicate bones between his fingers as he works them methodically along the arc of the wing. “And when it comes, the others will turn to _ you _ for comfort.” 

Skwisgaar kicks uselessly as his other wing receives the same treatment, the lack of oxygen blurring his vision. The pressure in his skull is mounting, blood rushing in his ears. 

“Will you do them the mercy of allowing them to die?” asks the Half Man. “Or will you be selfish enough to heal their bodies, prolonging their suffering, and trapping them with you, among the ashes of a ruined world?” He grabs one of Skwisgaar’s hands, and calmly, surgically, sets to work snapping each one of his fingers. “This is only a small taste,” he says, “of what I have in store for you.” Skwisgaar gulps silently, unable to make even the tiniest sound as his other hand is mangled, slowly and precisely, one finger at a time. “Your comrades can look forward to the promise of oblivion; But not you. You can be made to suffer _ forever_.” The Half Man opens his hand, letting Skwisgaar fall to the ground in a fractured heap. “You will beg for Death… But he won’t be able to hear you.”

Skwisgaar chokes, spitting ashes from his mouth. If Toki is truly lost to him— If his love is too late— It doesn’t bear contemplating. He clenches his ruined fists, fusing the bones back together with a fizz of lightning. 

“Surrender now,” says the Half Man, extending his talons. “Give me your heart, and I will release you from the terrible burden of its power. But continue to oppose me, and you will know torture beyond anything you have ever imagined. The choice is yours.”

Skwisgaar staggers to his feet, unfurling his crumpled wings as each needle-fine splinter of bone slides agonizingly back into place. “How ‘bouts… insteads…” he gasps, “you licks a dildo?” 

The Half Man lowers his outstretched arm. “You are unwise to refuse my mercy,” he hisses. “But no matter. Either way, Dethklok is doomed. Your comrades will fall before me, one by one." He vanishes in a curl of silver smoke. “And at last, there will be… silence.” 

  
  
  
  


There are frantic voices, and beeping machines. Skwisgaar feels hands on his body, and a needle in his arm. Toki, he tries to say. Where’s Toki? 

A penlight shines in his eyes, blurry faces swimming above him. “Mr. Skwigelf?” he hears. A cold metal instrument sizzles against his hot skin. 

He can hear himself groaning, but he can’t form words. His mouth is numb.

“Hold still,” he is told.

Fuck you, he thinks. Where the fuck is Toki?!

“Several of your vital organs have been perforated,” he is told. “But you regenerate quickly in your sleep. Our only protocol for treating you is to keep you sedated, until you’re no longer in critical condition.”

He shakes his head in refusal. His mouth tastes like iron. All he can see are vague shapes, red and orange amoebas, condensing and dispersing before his eyes. “‘Oki,” he slurs. “‘ere ams…?”

“Relax,” say the voices. “Just focus on recovering.” 

You don’t understand! he tries to say, as the heavy redness of the sedative washes over him. I need to know it’s not too late.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dethklok aren't the heroes we need; But _Metalocalypse_ is the apocalypse we deserve.


	10. Chapter 10

Skwisgaar steps off the train and checks into a youth hostel just outside of Jönköping with a change of clothes, a roll of bills, his trusty Explorer, and only the vaguest outline of a plan. 

He spends a couple of hours walking around the town. Buys a pack of cigarettes and smokes one in the park, watching kids play, unaccompanied, in a fountain. Busking isn’t really an option, unless he can somehow find an amp. He should have researched social services. He tips the ashes at his feet like birdseed, resolving to visit the unemployment office first thing in the morning.

By the time he makes it back to the hostel, it’s dark outside, and the excitement of venturing out on his own has already started to wear thin. There’s a group of university students drinking on the first floor, and he briefly considers joining them. It’s easy for him to pass for much older than he is, ever since he became the tallest person in almost any given room. He used to be shy, because he could never think of anything to say, but he’s learned how to spin his quietness as poise and maturity. These people could be his new friends, he thinks, watching them laugh and jostle each other. Anyone could. 

Upstairs, he throws his coat over the back of a chair and lies horizontally on his rented bunk, hugging the Explorer to his chest. Facile melodies spring to his fingertips, faster than thought. His fingering is becoming so smooth, so natural, that it’s almost involuntary, as if the guitar is playing his body, instead of the other way around. He supposes this must be how all real musicians feel. He’s crying, big hiccuping sobs without vocalization. He can go anywhere now, be anyone. Which is another way of saying he’s no one. If not for the vicious pleasure of the guitar, he thinks, he would have nothing.

“_What’s wrong?_” someone asks him.

Skwisgaar jolts upright. There’s a man standing on the inside of the (locked) door. 

No. Not a man. A _ creature_, with great black wings, and terrifying catlike eyes, and long bronze hair that wafts in an invisible wind. 

Skwisgaar clutches his guitar, his blood leaping with adrenaline. He’s too startled to move or speak. He knows the one about the musician who made a deal with the Devil in return for talent and fame. Could his thoughts have invited such mischief? Is he about to be offered such a deal?

“_I’m Toki_,” says the creature. “_I’m… a demon._” He raises his hands as though in surrender. “_But don’t worry! I’m not gonna hurt you,_” he says.

“_Pffft—_” Skwisgaar laughs, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “_I always knew Hell was full of Norwegians._” 

The demon takes a step towards the bed. His eyes are a strange, reflective blue, with pupils that aren’t black, but a darker shade of the same blue. Their jewelike eeriness is softened by a slightly lazy eyelid, which renders them charmingly asymmetrical. “_You don’t know me,_” he says. “_But I know you._” His forehead scrunches. “_Why were you crying?_” 

Skwisgaar tucks his hair behind his ears before continuing to strum, with more aggression than before. “_I just ran away from home,_” he says, “_and I have nowhere to go._” It could be a song, but he has no facility for lyrics. He can only just about state the basic facts of the matter: “_My mom is a selfish whore, who doesn’t give a shit about me, and probably won’t even notice I’m gone. My grandma is dead. I don’t have a dad. I don’t have any friends. I barely have any money. I don’t have a job. I didn’t even finish high school. And now, I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do._” He stops, slapping the pick guard, the strings vibrating under his wrist. 

“_What do you wanna do?_” The demon sits down beside him on the edge of the bed, depressing the mattress with his weight. He’s comfortingly corporeal, for an agent of Hell. 

Skwisgaar lovingly lays the Explorer in its case and sets it aside. “_I wanna play guitar_,” he says. “_I wanna play guitar more than anything else in the world._”

“_Then that’s what you’ll do._” 

He lifts his feet off the floor to hug his knees. A giant black wing hovers around him like a cloud. “_I don’t know_,” he sighs. Downstairs, a glass shatters, followed by curses and peels of drunken laughter. “_It doesn’t seem like a very realistic plan. I mean, I don’t even know if I’m good enough to play professionally._”

The demon’s mouth flops open in shock, before slowly widening into a massive grin. “_No way!_” he laughs. “_I don’t believe it!_” 

“_What?_” Skwisgaar sulks. “_Why are you laughing at me?_”

“_Sorry_.” The demon covers his mouth, but his grin is still visible in the crinkled corners of his eyes. “_It’s just that… You really don’t know? I thought you always knew!_”

“_Knew what? What am I supposed to know?_”

“_I can’t believe no one’s told you yet,_” he says, biting his lip with glee. “_But that means _ I _ get to tell you! Oh, this is so exciting!_” He clasps his hands together, his strange eyes watering. “_Skwisgaar_,” he says. “_You’re not just _ good— _ You’re an era-defining musical genius. You’re the greatest guitarist in the world_.”

Skwisgaar’s fingers tingle. “_What?_” he stammers. “_R-really?_” Happiness wrenches through him so hard he could throw up. “_Do I have to sell my soul to the Devil?_” he asks. His lungs are burning. “_Because I will_,” he clarifies. 

Without warning, he’s pulled against the demon’s chest. “_No, no, of course not._” The creature’s body is solid and warm, like a human’s, but his flesh resonates with dark, impossible energy. His feathers tickle the backs of Skwisgaar’s arms. “_I can’t believe you don’t know how special you are_,” he says. His embrace tightens. 

Skwisgaar closes his eyes. Being held this way is an unutterable relief. Maybe he shouldn’t trust a demon, but he finds it impossible to believe that it would ever hurt him. He is overcome with a sense of security and belonging, such as he has never felt with anyone. He doesn’t even remember what it said its name was, but he never wants it to leave him. “_You…? Really think I’m special?_” he asks. 

“_Imagine not knowing you’re a musical genius_,” the demon laughs. He pulls back, looking Skwisgaar in the eye. “_But then,_” he muses, “_now that I really think about it… I guess grown-up-you _still _doesn’t know_. _You always say it’s just practice._” He shakes his head, smiling in awe. “_I’m sure practice is what made you so fast and technical, but that’s not all you are: You’re intuitive. You _think _in music. You write like the universe is singing through you. It’s a rare gift._” He looks around the little room, taking stock of Skwisgaar’s few belongings. His smile falters. “_I’ve always been so jealous of it_,” he says. “_But I never realized how alone you were with it. No one told you, when you were a kid? You went to public school, I’m sure you carried that thing everywhere_,” he nods at the Explorer, “_and no one noticed?_”

“_My mom moved us around a lot_.” Skwisgaar blinks. “_I never really got to know anyone._” Skwisgaar stares at the creature’s mouth. Is that a typical moustache, for a demon? You have to wonder about someone who commits to such an extreme choice of facial hair. “_How do _ you _ know me?_” he asks. 

“_We’ll meet, years from now,_” says the demon. “_In California, of all places. And I won’t have to tell you how great you are, by then; In fact, you’ll never let me forget it._” He grins. “_The you I know writes music that enthralls the world. People regularly risk their lives just to hear a few bars of it._”

Toki. It said its name was Toki. Skwisgaar’s heart is pounding.

There’s a familiar gloss of desire in the demon’s expression. Human or not, Toki is looking at him the way men and women look at him. Skwisgaar surges forward and kisses him, stroking his brawny shoulders.

But Toki pulls away. “_No_,” he says, his face red. “_Not now, not like this._”

“_Why not?_” Skiwsgaar sits back, twisting his hands in his lap. He frowns, purring darkly, “_You obviously want me_.” 

Toki coughs, flustered. “_You’re just a kid!_” he says.

“_Pffft— Come on,_” says Skwisgaar. He leans back on his elbows, feeling petulant. “_It’s not like you’d be the first._” Shame colors the tips of his ears. “_I’m sorry,_” he adds. “_I guess I misread you_.” 

“_I’m not mad at you,_” says Toki. “_I just don’t think that’s what you really need right now._” He puts a broad hand on Skwisgaar’s shoulder. “_I think you need someone to care about you_,” he says. “_But you don’t know how else to ask for it._”

Skwisgaar picks a loose thread from the bedspread, falling quiet. What the hell is that supposed to mean? He just wants Toki to like him. He doesn’t want this dream, or whatever it is to end. Why’s it gotta be complicated? 

“_I know about Ingemar._”

His stomach sours. That more or less proves it’s a dream. Toki must be a figment of his own imagination, because that’s the only way he’d know. How else could anyone know?

The hand on his shoulder squeezes. “_You told me. I mean, grown-up-you told me_,” says Toki, as if reading Skwisgaar’s mind. “_The way you talk about it, though, it’s like you don’t think it’s a big deal. Like you think what happened to you doesn’t count, because it didn’t leave you covered in scars._” Toki’s large thumb draws little circles. For a tall and powerfully-built man, he has a soft voice. Or, for a demon, anyway. “_But I think it _was_ a big deal_,” he says. “_I think he really hurt you. I think a lot of men have really hurt you. And it’s okay, for grown-up-you… to not be over it._”

Skwisgaar curls like a nautilus, bringing his forehead to his knees. “_I told you? About Ingemar?_” he whispers, his voice cracking in disbelief. “_I never even told my mom_,” he says. He was crying earlier, but he doesn’t feel the urge to cry now. Instead, he just feels tired. “_I guess I wanted to hang on to the belief that if she knew, she’d do something about it,_” he confesses. “_I never told her, because that way, she couldn’t disappoint me._”

“_I’m sorry_,” says Toki. “_I’m sorry no one was paying attention. I’m sorry all the adults let you down._ _And I’m sorry it seems like you can’t trust anyone; Like everyone just wants a piece of you. But I promise, it’s not gonna be like that forever._”

“_Oh yeah?_” Skwisgaar scoffs. He lifts his head, giving Toki a slow, coquettish blink. “_I know you think I’m a kid_,” he says, “_but I know a little bit about how the world works, okay? I’m an unemployed high school dropout, by myself, in a strange city. Right now, my only real advantage in life is the fact that everyone wants to fuck me._” 

Toki shrugs. “_Well, I don’t see you that way_.”

Skwisgaar bites his lip, releasing it with a slow plop. “_How do you see me?_” he asks.

Toki takes both of his hands, waiting for Skwisgaar to meet his eyes before answering. “_I think you’re the most beautiful and talented person I’ve ever met,_” he says, “_but I don’t just covet your talent or your beauty. I don’t just wanna pick you apart, to get at those things._ _I love you. All of you. I love you as a whole person._” He brings one of Skwisgaar’s hands to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “_When I was about your age,_” he continues, “_I was living on the street, and you took me in when it seemed like no one else in the whole world wanted me. You showed me that I was worth something. You gave me something to be a part of. That’s why I fell in love with you; Not because of the things everyone else sees— Because of your kindness._”

The laughter and ambient noise of the hostel recede, and they are alone in the world. Skwisgaar swallows the lump in his throat. “_Take me with you,_” he pleads. “_I don’t wanna be here. I’d rather join you in Hell_.” But of course, he knows this isn’t possible. Their first meeting is still eight years, and nine thousand kilometers away.

Toki smiles. “_We’re gonna be alright,_” he promises. “_Just hang in there, for me._”

  
  
  
  
  
  


The moment he’s conscious, Skwisgaar leaps out of bed, ripping the IV from his arm and the feeding tube from his nose, and shoving carts, and monitors, and dildos in lab coats out of his way. His body is whole again, and effervescent with power. It feels like he’s swallowed the sun.

“Where’s Toki?” he demands, his voice echoing with divine wrath. 

Glass shatters and electrical elements explode as the staff scramble. The EKG machine bursts into flames. The head doctor screams and falls to his knees as a hail of sparks rains over him, searing his open eyes. Someone runs to grab a fire extinguisher. Skwisgaar storms past them, heedless in his bare feet of the shards of glass and metal that litter the tile floor. He’s naked, except for a mint green hospital gown, his hair frizzy and dry from being treated with generic shampoo. These people are worse than useless to him.

He throws open the plastic curtain to find Offdensen walking briskly toward him down the great corridor of Mordhaus’s on-site subterranean medical cavern. “Where’s Toki?” he repeats.

“Skwisgaar,” says Offdensen. He stops just shy of the curtain, his leather shoes crunching over debris. “You’re generating an electromagnetic field,” he says. The smoke alarm is screeching, sprinklers soaking his impeccable wool suit. “Stop it.” 

“Fine, whatevers,” Skwisgaar brushes him off. “Where’s Toki?” 

“We’ll discuss that after you’ve calmed down.”

“Eugh, no. I’ms t’inking it ams deh other ways arounds,” he says, breathing faster. “I calms down _ afters _ someone tells me where deh fucks ams Toki!” Behind him, the head doctor writhes on the floor like a sightless worm, moaning in agony and clutching his melting face. “Be quiets!” Skwisgaar turns to yell at him. He shoots a bolt of lightning at the doctor’s head. 

“_Ohgod—_” the man gasps as he absorbs the miraculous energy, his dripping red visage solidifying back into something resembling a human face. “_Thankyou— Thankyou—_” he sobs.

“Shuts up!” Skwisgaar cries. “Can’ts you sees we ams tryink to haves an importants converskations heres?!” 

Offdensen clears his throat. 

Skwisgaar pivots back to him, taking deep breaths through his nose. He feels hungry and monstrous. Less human than ever. He flexes his hands, inspecting the fading pink stigmata in the centers of his palms. 

“You, ah. Alright there?” asks Offdensen. “You wanna take a walk?”

“How longs I’s been asleeps?” Skwisgaar asks, running his tongue over fuzzy teeth.

“Two days,” says Offdensen. 

Skwisgaar clenches his stomach muscles, fighting to bring the lightning back under control as he follows Offdensen down the corridor. “Where ams—?”

“Tell you what,” Offdensen cuts him off, as they step onto a lift. “Why don’t you go take a shower, get dressed, and meet me in my office?”

Skwisgaar bites the inside of his cheek, falling silent. He wants answers, _ now_. This evasiveness can only mean bad things. 

Upstairs, he marches straight to his room, tossing the hospital gown aside and flipping on the shower. His phone is full of unread messages. Someone has thoughtfully recovered his guitar from the Dethbus and placed it in its stand. It’s surreal, returning from his abduction to find everything is in its proper place, as if he never left.

He stands under the scalding water, examining himself. His belly is _ covered _in faint, pinkish marks. Magnus must have stabbed him at least fifty times. A wave of vertigo engulfs him at the memory of the pain, and he has to grip the wall to keep himself from slipping.

Nothing can kill him; Having his guts torn open has left him stronger than ever. Even his missing teeth have been replaced. He scrubs himself, dizzy with power and tender with the pleasurable soreness of healing. It stands to reason that the more serious the damage, the more dramatic the regeneration. Somehow, it’s not a comforting thought.

One rushed shower later, he storms through Offdensen’s door, wet hair soaking the back of his shirt. He stands in front of the desk, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. It’s hard to keep his body still. 

“Aren’t you gonna have a seat?” asks Offdensen, taking a sip from his crystal tumbler. 

Skwisgaar sits, driving clenched fists into his thighs. 

“Scotch?” 

“No.”

“Feeling calmer now? Not gonna destroy all my lamps?”

“Where’s Toki?” he asks.

Offdensen sets the glass down on his leather blotter and steeples his fingers. “I don’t know.” 

“You _ don’ts know?!_”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’s alright. Trust me, if anything had happened to him… I’d sense it.” 

“Ja, well, guess whats?” Skwisgaar hisses. “Somet’ink _ haves _ happens to him, and I needs to finds him so dat I can be fixings it.”

“No,” says Offdensen. “I won’t have _ two _of you missing. My best men are searching for him, as we speak. You stay here.” 

Skwisgaar surges to his feet. “You can’ts keeps me here,” he says. 

“Actually,” says Offdensen, whirling his scotch, “I think you’ll find I can.” 

Skwisgaar clamps his eyes and mouth shut, simmering with frustration. Words? “You don’ts understands,” he says. “Toki ams… nots a normal humans, neithers.”

“I know,” says Offdensen, adjusting his glasses. He gives Skwisgaar a look of sympathy. “I haven’t been fully transparent with you boys. I promise, everything will be explained to you very soon. But you’re just gonna have to trust me, for now. There are greater forces at work here.”

“Ja, no shits. I’s pretty sure I’ms, eugh, _ one ofs dem._”

Offdensen looks tired. “You should go and see the others,” he says. “I’m sure they’re worried about you.” He stills, in a way that signals that the topic is closed. 

  
  
  
  
  


Skwisgaar paces down the hallway towards the kitchen. He’s never punched a wall, but for the first time, he understands the urge. It’s maddening, to feel so physically powerful, and yet so powerless over the situation. 

When he enters the kitchen, his bandmates look up from joylessly day-drinking to stare at him like he’s a ghost. Offdensen was right, he thinks, a little smugly: They _ were _ worried about him. He’s gone forty-eight hours, and already everyone looks like they’re falling apart. 

“Hey,” says Nathan, straightening in his chair. “Umm. How’s? I mean. Cool.” They’re seated around the kitchen table, an assortment of bottles arrayed in front of them. 

“Dood,” says Pickles. “Fucken. _Magnus? _ Right? I mean—”

“Nobody schaw that coming.” Murderface shakes his head. He makes a horizontal chopping gesture. “It wasch unforescheeable.”

Skwisgaar peers down at them. “I presumes from deh fact dat yous all drinkink straights vodkas at noons dat yous not busy wit’ any’ting importants?”

The three of them share a look. “Alright, fuck it,” Nathan gargles, hiding his mouth behind his glass. “Areyouokayman?”

“I’ms _ fine_.” 

“When dhey wheeled ya in here,” Pickles winces, “you were fucken hamburger meat.”

“Ja, wells.” Skwisgaar lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing the pinkish macules that speckle his belly. “I am unmortals, so. No big deal.”

They gape at him, no doubt imagining the pain. “Brutal,” says Nathan, out of pure reflex. 

“Dhat crazy sonofabitch…” Pickles tsks, refilling his glass.

Skwisgaar rolls his eyes, impatient. “Who ams goink to helps me finds Toki den?”

“Aw, come on,” says Murderface. “They’re out there, lookin’ for ‘em. That’sch not on usch.”

“Dah team dhat found you said he ran away,” Pickles shrugs. “He’s naht really missing, he's just like… a little kid dhat gaht lahst at dah mall. He’ll turn up.”

Skwisgaar feels his ribs expanding and contracting with breath. The last thing he remembers before waking up here is the sight of Toki begging for his help, as the deathforce overtook him. Why would he run away? Unless, he’s so changed that he doesn’t even want to come home, or doesn’t remember how. The Half Man said he’d gone somewhere Skwisgaar couldn’t reach him. “What’s dhey done wit’ Magnus’s body?” he demands.

“I dunno,” says Pickles. “Why?” The topic of their former bandmate puts everyone on edge. 

Skwisgaar narrows his eyes. “I has a question to acks him.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Murderface frowns. “You can’t ashk him a queshtion, he’sch dead.” ‘And good riddance,’ is strongly implied. 

Skwisgaar sighs, waiting for one of them to put two-and-two together, which takes several seconds longer than it should— though in his bandmates’ defence they _ are _ drunk, and not even the fun kind of drunk.

  
  
  
  
  


“Hey there, Dethklok fans! Welcome to the Mordhaus Morgue. If you die at Mordhaus, your ugly corpse’ll end up here!”

“Someone torns off deh fuckings Facebones!” Skwisgaar yells over his shoulder, as he opens the door to the cold storage room. 

“Fer dah record,” says Pickles. “I was against dhis. If anyone asks, I tried to stahp you.” 

“But you didn’ts,” says Skwisgaar. “Yous not doing anyt’ing fors to stops me.” They step inside, gagging as the smell of formalin mixed with rotting flesh hits the backs of their tongues. 

“Because dhat would require effort. I’m just here to say ‘I told ya so’ if it all goes hahrribly wrahng.”

Murderface clears his throat. “Yeah scho, juscht doin’ a little gut check here and, uh… I don’t think thisch isch schuch a good idea either.” 

“What, are you guys still afraid of him?” asks Nathan. “I’m not. I kicked his ass once, and I’ll do it again.” 

“I could’ve taken him,” Murderface grumbles. “You jusht beat me to it, isch all.” 

“Oh yeah?” Nathan laughs. “Prove it.”

“Well that’sch not fair. How’m I gonna prove a counterfactual?” 

“After Skwisgaar’s done with him, try to kick his ass. And when he breaks your face, you owe me fifty-million dollars.” 

Murderface reddens. “F-fine,” he sputters. “Well, wha— I mean, whaddo I get if I win?”

“Fifty-million dollars!” Nathan turns to Skwisgaar. “Make sure you fix his eye. I had to fight him with two eyes, so it’s only fair.”

“Once agains,” says Skwisgaar darkly, skimming his fingertips over the stainless steel cold lockers, “I ams nots like, you knows, deh circus bear ridings on deh eunichs-eye-cool. Dis ams not a _ cheaps parlors tricks _ for yous enterztainments!” He concentrates, trying to sense which locker Magnus is held in, but the dead are silent. All he can feel, when he strains his senses, are the microorganisms feeding on their decomposing flesh. Frustrated, he pulls open a silver drawer at random, to find the body of a small woman under a white sheet. “Makes youselves usefuls,” he says. “Starts openings all ofs dem.”

Pickles tries one. “Check dhis guy out,” he says. “Looks like he gaht run over by a car or somethin’.” 

“That’sch nothing!” says Murderface. “My guy looksch like he wasch dousched in keroschene and schet on fire!”

“Hey guys, guys,” says Nathan. He holds up a severed head by the hair, puppeteering its bottom lip, and adopting a breathy falsetto. “_Ohno, I- I got decapitated._” His shoulders shake and he struggles to continue, cracking himself up. “_I’m just a head. Where’s— Where’s my dick?_”

“Dhat’s— Dhat’s pretty good,” Pickles laughs. 

Murderface nods his approval. “Classchic comedy.”

Fifteen lockers in, they find what they’re looking for.

“Aw jeez,” says Pickles, peeling back the white sheet. “Dhat’s him alright.” 

They close the other fourteen lockers, and lift Magnus’s body onto the silver coroner’s table. For a minute, they just stand around the table, staring down at him, like they're about to do some kind of seance. His lips are purple, his snarling features grayish and blank.

Murderface shudders. “You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “it’sch different. When it’sch schomeone you knew. It’sch… weird. To schee them dead.”

“Even dhough… he was such a piece of shit, in dah end,” says Pickles. 

“I remember ridin’ in hisch car,” says Murderface. “I remember when he schent in all thosche Marlboro box topsch and got the full cowboy code knife schet. Watchin’ grindhousche moviesch on the projector in hisch garage.”

“Yeah,” says Nathan, solemnly. “I remember what a great guitar player he was. I mean, he wasn’t as good as Skwisgaar. But he was good, and he worked really hard.”

Skwisgaar stands at the end of the table, the crown of Magnus’s head roughly level with his skull belt buckle. “Ja,” he agrees, softly. “He was goods.” He touches Magnus’s cold cheek.

This is going to be difficult, Skwisgaar realizes. Magnus’s corpse has already begun to putrefy. So far, he’s only managed to resurrect one man, and one wolf, both freshly dead. His powers have only continued to grow since then, so he may be capable of summoning the necessary voltage. But it’s going to hurt. Why does everything have to hurt? 

Another issue occurs to him: Even if he can bring Magnus back to life, will he be able to answer any of Skwisgaar’s questions? Does his decomposing brain retain its memories, or will healing him at this stage turn him into a blank slate? There’s only one way to find out. 

Skwisgaar presses one hand to Magus’s forehead, and raises the other high in the air. His bandmates retreat as the lightning travels through the many levels of Mordhaus, to explode through the ceiling and surge down his arm in a volcano of white sparks. The corpse convulses, stiffened muscle fibers shocked into action, collapsed blood vessels beginning to circulate coagulated sludge. Skwisgaar grips the back of Magnus’s skull with both hands, bringing his forehead down to rest on Magnus’s forehead. His freshly-healed insides are boiling, and his ears are filled with the roar of pouring gravel. The overhead lights explode, showering them in glass and plunging the room into total darkness. He drags the lifeforce from deep in his chest, from the pit of his stomach. The pain is mingled with euphoria, golden liquid heat filling every atom of his body like the hexagonal cells of a honeycomb. With a final, wrenching effort, he pours every last drop into Magnus’s corpse before letting go, and bracing his hands on the edge of the table as he doubles over, gasping for breath. 

It takes a few more seconds for the backup fluorescents to power on, bathing the room in harsh, yellowish light. Skwisgaar staggers around the table to survey his work. “Come on,” he rasps. “Wakes up.” His hands are trembling. 

Magus sits up, stiff limbs lurching with residual current. His mouth falls open, foaming first with yellow bile, then a pinkish mix of bile and blood. 

“Dood,” says Pickles, crouching in the corner of the room. “I told ya so.” 

“Ugh, he’sch like, half-way,” says Murderface in disgust. “You made him a fucken zchombie! I’m not gonna fight a _ zchombie!_”

“Dude,” Nathan urges, “fix it.” He gives Skwisgaar an uncharacteristic look of horror. Gore doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but _ this_— “Fucken. Fix it, _now_.” 

“Relax,” says Skwisgaar, gathering himself. “Dis ams nots, how you calls, an exzackt science. Yous gonna hasta bears wit’ me, oukay?”

The animate corpse gurgles wetly. Skwisgaar approaches him, gazing into his milky, sightless eyes. “Now,” he breathes, thinking aloud. “How to gets you back in dere?” He cups Magnus’s face, giving his lifeforce an experimental prod. Instead of the music Skwisgaar has come to associate with living things, there’s a shrill, droning sound, a kind of cosmic audio feedback. Obeying his instincts, he wraps his arms around Magnus’s body, pressing the light into him gently this time. Pulling the scattered monads of Magnus’s soul from the void, and letting them coalesce like rolling beads of mercury. It’s just like tuning an instrument; All he has to do is listen, making minute adjustments, until the soul sounds like Magnus again. 

The heartbeat pressed against Skwisgaar quickens, and Magnus stirs, hands clutching the air. “What—?” he chokes, squirming in Skwisgaar’s grip. “Whatthefuckman? _ Whatthefuckman? What the fuck is this, man?_” His voice is ragged, his whole frame shaking with shallow sobs.

“Shhh…” says Skwisgaar. “Yous okei.” He pours the light over Magnus in waves, washing away all putrefaction and rot, softening all cold and stiffness. It’s clear now, why the ability to soothe and comfort is a necessary component of his powers; Otherwise, the trauma of waking up inside a swiftly-warming corpse would drive all of his victims insane. He gives Magus a parting surge of light before pulling away, just to make sure everything’s working again, and to blunt any lingering pain or fear.

“Skwisgaar?” Magnus asks. “What the fuck— What happened?”

“Yous been deads for two days,” says Skwisgaar, matter-of-factly. 

Magnus blinks down at his own hands. Both of his dark brown eyes are intact. “I-I can see,” he says. “What the fuck?” He looks up as Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface approach the table, gawking at him. “What are all you pricks doin’ here?” he asks, pulling the white sheet over his nakedness. “Is this Hell?” 

“Ha, you wish,” says Nathan. “This is Mordhaus.” 

“Yous alive,” says Skwisgaar. He straightens, normalizing his heartbeat and reining in his power. “You wants to stays dat way?”

Magnus’s eyes bulge with fear. “Listen, man,” he says, “I’m sorry! I wasn’t in my right mind, okay? You gotta believe me!” 

Skwisgaar hmns to himself, watching the pulse leap in Magnus’s neck. “You tortureds me,” he says. “But don’ts worry: I didn’ts brings you backs to lifes just to repays you in kinds. I has more importants t’ings to do.” The others close ranks around him, looking down at Magnus in fascination and pity. 

“Then—” Magus swallows, studying each of their faces. “What are you guys gonna do with me?” 

“I broughts you back, because I’s wantings informations,” says Skwisgaar. “Afters dat,” he shrugs. “Sends you to deh dungeons, most likelies? Let’s you kicks Mordorface’s ass, to settles a bet? I don’ts really care.”

“What information?” asks Magnus. He flexes his fingers, perhaps noticing that his arthritis has been cured. It’s better than he deserves, Skwisgaar thinks, but once he starts, it’s very hard for him to resist the urge to heal someone completely. He’s surprised how charitably disposed he feels towards a man who tried to cut his still-beating heart out, to say nothing of his long history of abusive behavior before that. But Skwisgaar is surprised at himself a lot these days.

He leans forward, growing intense. “Tells me everyt’ing you knows abouts deh Hafz Man,” he says. “What ams he dones wit’ Toki?” 

“I don’t know anything about that,” Magnus groans, wiping the bile and blood from his face with a whimper of fear. “Just fucken kill me again, okay? It’s the end of the world: I don’t wanna stick around for that shit anyway.” 

“Tell him what he wants to know,” Nathan growls.

Magnus eyes his clenched fists warily. “I met him at the crossroads,” he sighs. 

“Where ams dat?”

“You _ know_,” he says. “The actual, no-shit Robert Johnson crossroads, in Dockery, Mississippi. I was headed down to Louisiana for a gig, I thought, ‘What the hell?’ I decided to take a little field trip.” He slings his legs over the edge of the coroner's table. “Could we maybe take this upstairs, or something?” he asks. “Can I at least get some pants? It’s fucken cold in here.”

“No,” says Skwisgaar. “Forst, you tells me what yous seen.”

Magnus strokes his goatee. “He looked like a man,” he says. “But he was somethin’ else. I don’t know what.” He shakes his head, bewildered, as though clearing his vision of stars. “He told me about how the world goes through these cycles,” he continues. “The death of the old gods, and the rise of the new gods. And I guess He— the Half Man —was one of the old gods. Whatever that means. He said he wanted me to help him stop the new gods from taking his place.” He looks up at Skwisgaar, pleading. “He offered me things, okay? He got in my head. I think he can, I don’t know. Control people’s minds. You saw it!” 

“You means,” Skwisgaar frowns, “dhose Mansons Family guys?”

“The Revengencers.”

His stomach plunges. “Coulds He be doings dat to Toki? Controllinks his minds?” 

Magnus sighs, wrung out. “I don’t know. I told you, I don’t know shit!” He shivers, looking down at the floor. His bare feet curl at the sight of all those tiny particles of glass, scattered across the tile like spilled salt. “No,” he says, after a minute. “You’re the ones he wants. If he could control you, or Toki… He wouldn’t need intermediaries, right?” He looks back up at Skwisgaar. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I’ve got… a bit of temper. I’ve done a lotta shit I regret. But I swear, I wouldn’t have done what I did to you if He hadn’t been fucking with my head. Seriously—” For a second, he looks like he might cry. “If you’re gonna kill me, please make it quick. Don’t feed me to your wolves, or whatever.” 

“Ahright,” says Pickles. “Dhis can’t stand.” He jabs a finger at Magnus. “I don’t giva crap if you were mind-controlled by an evil wizard or whatever. Do you expect us to feel sahrry fer you? You were already a total douchebag long before any of dhat!” 

“I can’t believe I usched to think you were cool,” says Murderface. “What a rube I wasch, back then.”

“Obviously, it all worked out great for us,” says Nathan. “Toki belongs in Dethklok. The sound we developed after he joined, was the sound that took us all the way to the top. But, still. It’s just never sat right with me, the way things ended with you, man. We all respected the hell outta you as a musician. But you just had to be a massive dick.” 

“That feel good?” Magnus laughs dryly. “Gettin’ that out? What do you all want from me, huh?" He throws up his hands. "It’s been ten years! You won! I’m a fucken corpse, with nobody left to bury me.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Please, just get it over with.”

“I vote: feed ‘em to dah wolves,” says Pickles.

Murderface nods. “Scheconded.”

“Hey, waita minute,” says Nathan. “You’re just trying to get out of fighting him!”

“Chht—” Skwisgaar silences everyone. “I ams deh one givings him lifes,” he says primly, raising his chin. “And dherefores, I ams deh one to be decidings his fate.” 

Nathan frowns, doing the math. “Yeah, okay. I mean. I guess that’s fair.” 

Skwisgaar places his hands on the silver table, bracketing Magnus’s knees and looking him in the eye. “Magnus Hammersmit’,” he pronounces. Magnus’s dark eyes flicker with wonder and terror. “Because I ams a wise and morcifuls god— ands because raisings deh dead makes my ears bleed, so I don’ts likes to does it for nothing —I haves decideds to sets you free, so dhat mayhaps you will does somet’ing wit’ yous sorry reprobates lifes. And for as long as you lives,” Skwisgaar says softly, “you will know dat I has held yous soul in my hands. And dat you draws breat’ only because I has willed it.”

“Lame,” says Pickles. “I still wanna see _ somebody _get eaten. Hey, who wants to rewatch dah video of dhat methhead fallen’ intah dah lion pit at deh Cleveland Metropark Zoo?”

Murderface narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Isch thisch what you meant about bein’ nische?” he asks Skwisgaar. “I thought that wasch just schome kind of avant-garde performansche art you were doing. I don’t get it.”

Skwisgaar says nothing, crossing his arms. This world may be ending, but he finds himself hoping poor Magnus will have a chance to redeem himself in the next one. It’s not forgiveness. He might never forgive the men who have hurt him, some far worse than Magnus, and in ways he still can’t fully articulate to this day. He has simply transcended them. Eternity yawns before him, and he can’t afford to be burdened by these painful memories.

  
  
  
  
  


That night, he goes to Toki’s room to wallow among Toki’s things. The Flying V is propped against the wall, open modeling kits half-finished on the table, stale clothes and loose leaves of construction paper littering the floor. Skwisgaar waters Toki’s succulents in the sink and then lies down on his bed.

Come back to me, he pleads. He hugs a pillow, inhaling Toki’s familiar scent. Will New Toki smell different? It’s okay, he promises. It’s okay if you’re different now. Just come back.

The principles of stoicism tend to assume that their adherents are human. There are countless stoic meditations on the theme of accepting your own inevitable death; But none, as far as Skwisgaar knows, about accepting the possibility that you will _ never _ die.

Light is threading through him, smoothing and perfecting every tiny quivering cilia of him. By now, the pink marks covering his abdomen and on his palms are gone. He can’t stay marked, even if he wanted to. His body is a golden icon of sex, and pleasure, and fertility, and healing; It doesn’t matter if he’s feeling up to the task of symbolizing any of those things.

Magnus accused him of failing to appreciate this, and he wasn’t wrong. For a world-class libertine, Skwisgaar has always, paradoxically, had something of the ascetic in his character. 

He buries his face in Toki’s pillow, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears. This is scary, he thinks. It hurts. I want out of this body. Toki, what if I really can’t die? What if I can never get out of this body? 

He twists onto his side, hugging the pillow to his chest. I’ve met Him, Toki: The Half Man. He says he’s gonna torture me forever. Toki, what if he cuts me up into a million little pieces and I _ still _can’t die? Toki, what am I gonna do?

The thought of waking up a blank canvass, to suffer it all again, is more than he can bear.

Sure enough, when he opens his palm, the puncture mark is gone. But I remember it, he thinks. Toki, I remember how much it hurt. And now, there’s no evidence it even happened. It makes me feel like I’m going crazy.

On the nightstand, there’s one of the razors Toki uses to cut the plastic pieces out of his modeling kits. Skwisgaar grabs it, and presses the point into the center of his palm. See,Toki? he thinks. He twists the wedge-shaped razor, cutting out a little circle. Blood drips down his wrist, and he grabs one of Toki’s paint rags to catch it. As he mops up the blood, the skin is already sealing beneath it. He closes his eyes in frustration. 

Maybe Toki feels trapped, too. Maybe that’s why he ran away. Skwisgaar curls on his side, sliding the razor along his fingers, against his palm, over the pulse in his wrist, picking the skin open and watching it close up, again and again. His flesh is pure, Toki says. Flawless. Free of corruption. But I remember the pain, he thinks. And I remember feeling corrupted. I swear, I’m not making it up. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I added two more chapters.


	11. Chapter 11

After submitting to the usual battery of enhanced interrogation sessions and non-disclosure agreements, Magnus is given a Hot Topic gift card and sent on his way. Four-fifths of Dethklok watch from a distant window as their star-crossed former bandmate staggers down the drawbridge like a deer in headlights, dressed in borrowed clothes. His step is hesitant, like he’s afraid the earth might open up and swallow him if he offends it; Coming back from the dead will do that to you. 

Murderface rubs his moustache. “Schould— Schould we have aschked him where you go when you die?”

“_Fffuuuck _dhat, man.” Pickles turns away from the window, adjusting his sweatbands. “I don’t wanna know.” 

“I’m just schaying, the whole thing raischesch a lotta philoschophical queschtionsch.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Ya know, like. Like. Isch there boozshe in Hell?”

“Uh-huh. Okay, Kierkegaard. I’ll tell ya what dhough: Dhere’s booze in dah kitchen.”

As they leave the room, Skwisgaar sits in the window niche, watching the tiny Magnus disappear into the mist. The yardwolves permit him safe passage, as though sensing that he has been spared for some purpose. He is fully alive, but not unmarked by his temporary death: The vibrating string of fate that tethers him to his body is tuned to a different key. Skwisgaar wonders if they’ll meet again, or if Magnus is truly free now of the machinations of Dethklok. It’s strange to envy such a hapless, fragile-looking figure. He taps out a few bars on Toki’s Flying V, which hasn’t left his arms all day. _We fear not our immortality_. 

Without turning to look, he can sense Nathan standing behind him. The song of Nathan’s string is two-toned, for he is both man and god— yet still distinct enough from Skwisgaar’s own, for perhaps he is not truly deathless, not in the same way. 

He lowers himself onto the cool stone ledge before the window, draping his forearms over his thighs. The polish on his nails could use refreshing. 

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t, uh. Don’t worry about Toki.”

Skwisgaar doesn’t respond, still staring out the window. What sort of a thing is that to say to him? Is it supposed to be comforting? His stomach hurts. 

“He’s gonna come home soon,” says Nathan.

Skwisgaar snorts, watching the yardwolves chase each other in circles as he works over the same frets Toki last touched. “How does you knows?”

“I dunno, just. A feeling. Okay?”

His fingers stop, recognition prickling over his scalp. “Waits, Nat’an,” he turns. “How _ does _you knows?” He leans forward, searching Nathan’s eyes. 

Nathan blinks back at him. The thread of his soul is pulled taut, humming with anticipation. He’s confused, but intrigued. He feels it too. 

Green water flashes before Skwisgaar’s mind. “I remembers now!” he says, striking the pick guard with his nails. “I was supposed to tells you!” 

“What?” Nathan straightens, clenching and unclenching his fists. The sleeping seagod stirs within him, the change slowly heating his bones. “What’s going on?” He glances around, like he’s afraid something’s gonna to jump out at him.

“Yous tryings to tells me dat Toki will comes back homes,” says Skwisgaar, growing intense. “Yous forseens it.”

Nathan’s pupils swell, like he just got blasted with a faceful of yopo. “I…” 

Instinctively, Skwisgaar reaches out and grabs hold of his hand, and instead of pulling away, Nathan is still. The pulse throbs in his thick wrist. “You sees deh futures,” says Skwisgaar. He watches, fascinated, as Nathan’s eyes cloud over, darting back and forth as though in REM sleep. 

“Holy shit,” Nathan says. His hands start shaking. “Holy shit.” His voice is cracking, the way it does before gargling salt water at the end of a long recording session. “My _ head_—” he groans. “Fuck! What did you—? What are you doing to my head?!”

“It amn’ts me,” says Skwisgaar. “It ams you. You has dis powers insides you all alongs.” Nathan’s grip on his hand tightens to the point of pain; But pain is relative, and Skwisgaar’s tolerance is growing. He lifts the guitar strap over his head, laying Toki’s Flying V aside, and wrapping his free arm around Nathan’s shoulders. “S’oukay,” he whispers, pulling Nathan into a hug. 

“I see it!” Nathan sobs, groping blindly at Skwisgaar’s shoulders. His voice is like broken glass. “I see— the end of the world!” He clutches Skwisgaar against him as the green water rises, boiling his blood. “God, we’re so fucked! Everything’s fucked—” 

“Yous gonna be oukay,” Skwisgaar promises, pressing a bubble of healing into Nathan’s heaving back. He can feel the seagod’s strange and terrible power shaking Nathan from within, preparing to split him open and shed his mortal form like a snakeskin. He can feel the song of fear and pain as Nathan, his Nathan, is forced to accept the mind and body of New Nathan, tempered by wisdom and tormented by the gift of foresight. “Yous not gonna hasta face it alones,” Skwisgaar whispers. “S’gonna takes care of you.” He cups the burning nape of Nathan’s neck, letting Nathan’s head rest on his shoulder. “Yous my best friends, you knows dat?” 

Nathan squeezes him, making a kind of airless barking sound. “That’s. The most unmetal thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Whatevers,” Skwisgaar chuckles. “I sorviveds gettings stabs fifty-sevens times while you was probablies, eh, jerkings-it-offs in deh showers or somet’ink. I’s like, deh most metals guy you knows.” The hug releases, and he smiles at Nathan’s splotchy, feverish face.

“That’s. A good point,” Nathan concedes. He knuckles his sternum, hunching over in discomfort. “What the hell is happening to me?” he asks. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Yous… becomings a god.” Skwisgaar's smile turns wistful. “I mets you, insa visions. You was a mormaid man,” he laughs. “But don’ts worry.” He rubs his chin, remembering. “Yous only halfs-fish in deh waters. When you goes on land, you has legs agains, I thinks.”

“That’s… handy.” Nathan frowns, bewildered. He leans back, resting his head against the glass. “Fuck,” he chokes. He drives the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, rubbing anguished circles. 

“What ams goings to happens?” Skwisgaar asks. 

Nathan groans. “I don’t know. There’s too many different versions. It’s like… not set in stone yet.” His hands move away from his eyes and rake back over his head as he hunches forward, clasping them at the base of his skull. 

Skwisgaar wants so badly to press him further about Toki, but the competing urge to be empathetic and considerate of Nathan’s condition wins out. He’s supportive. He’s generous. He’s… _ loving_, even. It’s kind of incredible to reflect on just how much he’s allowed these feelings to take hold of his personality, but there’s a certain relief in finally admitting that this is who he really is inside. He _ does _ care about the people he’s been living and working with for the past ten years. He _ does _want to take care of them. It’s scary, but it’s worth it, to finally feel close to them. He rocks back in the window niche, patiently waiting for Nathan to speak.

“I saw… fucken Flordia falling into the sea,” Nathan says. He raises his head again, the corners of his mouth wrenching down. “Shit, man. What if something happens to my parents?” 

Skwisgaar shakes his head. “I wills protecks dem,” he says. 

“Dude, really?” Nathan asks. “Even with, like. The whole world ending, and millions of people dying? You’d really use your powers to protect my family, specifically?”

“Ja,” Skwisgaar smiles. “Why nots? You has deh god of Lifes for yous leads guitarist, you gets to cheats.” He gives the air a regal sort of sweep. “It ams my perzogatives to be grantings favors to my friends.”

Nathan’s arms envelope him again. “Dude—” Nathan says. “Fucken. Thanks, man.” 

In all the years they’ve known each other, Skwisgaar can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Nathan Explosion cry.

  
  
  
  
  
  


That evening, Offdensen calls Skwisgaar back into his office to inform him that Toki is ‘recovering from his, ah, ordeal’ in an ‘undisclosed location.’ 

Undisclosed, apparently, because Toki has asked Offdensen not to tell anyone where he is. Including Skwisgaar. _ Especially _Skwisgaar.

Offdensen is unfortunately skilled at keeping secrets, and it seems no amount of yelling or lamp-smashing is sufficient to get it out of him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Skwisgaar hasn’t left his room in ages. 

Maybe he’s catastrophizing. Maybe he isn’t being abandoned by the only person he knows of who might share his predicament, whose companionship might blunt the horror of _falling-through-the-endless-abyss-of-time-forever-with-no-possible-means-of-escape_. 

Maybe Toki just needs to take a few personal days.

Skwisgaar rolls over in his bed, burying his face in a pillow. What if New Toki is cold and harsh? What if New Toki doesn’t love him? Whatever Toki is going through, why won’t he let Skwisgaar make it better? 

Early on in this misery spiral, Skwisgaar’s phone had been ringing pretty much every hour on the hour. It wasn’t Toki though. It was— of all seven billion people on Earth —his mother. Around the tenth time, without even checking the number, he’d thrown the phone as hard as he could, smashing it open against the wall. And that was the end of that.

Now, he lies coiled in the center of his mattress, trying to block out the thought of ending up alone forever _ aloneforeveraloneforeveraloneforever_.

Maybe, if his phone were intact, he’d scream into it: You evil whore, why did you do this to me? Don’t you know it’s wrong to give birth to something that can’t die?

Days pass, and he can actually see and feel himself losing weight by the hour, his chest collapsing inward like a time-lapse video of human decomposition. He refuses all knocks at the door, all invitations to dinner, and by the end of the third day, he’s so weak he can barely raise his head. At the rate his body burns calories, he seems liable to wink out of existence by the end of the week. Clammy and shivering beneath the covers, he fades in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses of his own increasingly grotesque thinness. At times, the hunger is so intense it feels like a power drill to the gut; And he would know, having been stabbed there fifty-seven times. 

There’s a certain demented satisfaction in punishing his body this way. Spreading his skeletal fingers across the fur of his comforter, the thought of how brittle and weak he’s managed to make himself gives him a lightheaded thrill. Hair dry and limp, skin patchy and sallow, he looks nothing like Skwisgaar Skwigelf. He could almost believe he is free of that name, and the exacting requirements it places on him. No one would mistake him now for any sort of icon of perfection. 

But of course, it can’t last. Starvation is no way out; Damage only makes him stronger. If his body is a prison, it’s a prison that adapts to his every attempt to escape. 

Near the end of the fourth day, his metabolism bottoms out completely, and his body stops consuming itself and starts feeding directly on the fabric of the universe. He tries to resist it, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent the light from threading itself into him and solidifying into flesh, replacing the depleted minerals in his bones, the protein in his muscles, the collagen in his skin. Strength and life pour into him, building him back up cell by cell, binding him in ineluctable golden beauty. And he cries into his pillow, knowing that he has crossed another threshold, and that he won’t be able to simulate human weakness or ugliness that way again. 

Eventually, realizing he’s reached some kind of homeostasis, he throws off the covers and opens his eyes. Like a proper god, he’s proportioned as though by a sculptor, according to the golden ratio. He is, perhaps, a little less willowy and androgynous than before— like the time they spent months aboard the Dethsub, where there was nothing to do all day but work on the album and lift weights —a certain broadening of his chest and shoulders serving to emphasize the dramatic narrowness of his waist. Still, he’d be notably slender next to Toki, whose absence gnaws at him far more than the desire for food. 

He gets up, stamping over to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. Gripping the sink, he grants himself about thirty seconds of senseless thrashing, before falling still, wild hair covering his face. 

Enough wallowing. This isn’t what Marcus Aurelius would do.

He sweeps his head back, perfect waves bouncing out of the way, and examines his reflection. Great, fine, good. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect teeth. His eyes are roughly the color of laundry detergent, with pupils that are no longer black, but instead a darker shade of blue. Which is very normal, and totally okay, and definitely doesn’t provoke the urge to gouge them out with scissors or anything.

It’s fine. He’s fine. He feels great. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed and staring out the window when Toki walks in. 

“I knockeds,” Toki says, apologetic. “But you didn’ts answers.” He closes the door behind him and stands on the other side of the bed. Skwisgaar can just barely make out his reflection in the glass. Relief chokes him. The voice is Toki’s, despite the ghostly echo behind it. 

He walks around the bed. The tops of his boots appear at Skwisgaar’s feet. “Sos… dis ams New Toki,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Whats you thinks?”

Skwisgaar stares up at him, lips softly parted. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

The wraithlike creature standing over him couldn’t possibly be mistaken for human. Whereas Skwisgaar is in a state of constant flux, constant motion and regeneration, Toki has simply… _ stopped_. Every particle of him is frozen, fixed, eternal, suspended in time; He’s like some kind of supple, living statue. His skin is marble-smooth and pale, with bright veins showing through in places. His eyes are opalescent, almost-white, with pinprick dark blue pupils. 

“I knows,” says Toki, resigned. “I’s kind of creepies.” 

It’s true: He’s very creepy. 

But he’s Toki. This… _ entity _is still Toki, inside. 

He sits cross-legged on the floor, bouncing expectantly. “Isn’t you goings to says anyt’ing?” he laughs, growing nervous. 

Skwisgaar huffs and hugs his legs. Despite his best efforts, he can’t keep the tears out of his voice. “Don’ts you ever fucking does dat to me agains,” he hisses. 

“I’s sorries,” says Toki. “I trieds to calls you, but you never answers!”

Skwisgaar’s forehead hits his knees. “Eugh.” His face burns. “I destroyed mines phones.” Without raising his head, he demands, “Tells me everyt’ing. Where deh hells yous been?” He can feel Toki’s weight shift in front of him. 

Toki sighs. “Wells, what ifs I tells you deh hells I’s been ams _ actuals _ Hells?”

“Ands you hads phone sorvice dere?” Skwisgaar sniffs. “Don’ts gives me dat.”

“I’s _ sorries_,” Toki repeats. “I thoughts you’ds be okei withouts me for a whiles.”

Skwisgaar looks up. “Who says I’s not okei? I’s greats. I’s on top of deh words.” 

Toki rolls his eyes. His blue pupils flash when they move, like a cat’s. “Does you wanna know where I’s been or nots?” 

Skwisgaar sinks, peering over the tops of his knees. “Ja.” 

Toki smooths his hands over his lap, rehearsing his story. “At forst I was alones,” he begins. “I was fallings and fallings t’rough deh darkness, and it seemeds like it woulds go on dis ways forevers. I was so scareds. I couldn’ts finds any way outs. But at last, I reaches deh bottoms. And He was dere: Deh Halfs Man.”

“Dids He horts you?” Skwisgaar whispers. 

“No.” Toki shakes his head. “He trieds to convinces me dat I ams likes Him. He wanteds to horts _ you_. He hates you more den anyt’ing. He trieds all kinda ways to gets me to betrays you.” Recalling this puckers his whole face. “But He couldn’ts understands… dat I loves you.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “I thinks He ams forgottens what dats like.” 

Already, Skwisgaar has questions, but he doesn’t want to interrupt. His chest squeezes with suspense. 

“He becames angries,” says Toki, “and lefts me dere, in deh darkness, surroundeds by deh shadows of deh deads. I wandereds dere for what seemeds like a real long times. I didn’ts knows whats to do. But den,” he smiles. “My moms cames to me. My real moms.” The smile grows, splitting his face, as tears begin to stream from his strange, inhuman eyes. “She— She forgaves me, for killings her. She saids— Skwisgaar, she saids she was _ prouds _ of me. She saids most peoples wouldn’ts haves been ables to lives wiffs dis curse— wiffs not beings ables to loves— and keeps as much loves in dem as I has. She saids… I’s strongs, for dat. I hadn’ts thought of it dat way befores.” Clear snot drips from his nose, and he paws roughly at his salty, reddening face. “I tolds her abouts you,” he says.

“Ja?” Skwisgaar uncurls his legs. Softly, he prompts, “Whats dids she says?”

“She was so _ happies_.” Toki’s expression sparkles. “Dat I founds someone… _ safes_. She saids she hads been prayings for me. For my lifes not to bes just… endless sufferings and loneliness. And I tolds her, it hasn’ts been. I tolds her: It’s been _ goods_.” He scrubs his eyes.

Skwisgaar catches himself leaning forward, waiting for him to resume his story.

“When I wokes up— back on Earths, I guess —I was lost in deh middles of deh deserts. And I was…” Toki looks down at himself and opens his hands, forehead crinkling in distress. “Likes dis.” 

Curiosity alone is enough to make Skwisgaar eager to touch him, but he senses that the moment isn’t right yet. “What ams it likes?” he asks instead. 

“At forst, it was pure horribles,” says Toki. “My body felts numbs and empties. I wanders in deh hot suns for hours, but it didn’ts borns me. I didn’ts feels thorsty. Or tireds. Or anyt’ing. Evenkshullies, I gots receptions on my phones. And I calleds Abigails to comes and picks me up.”

“Abigails?” Skiwsgaar asks, souring. “Why hers?” Why not me. 

“I just…” Toki droops. “I wanteds to bes wid’ somebody who I coulds trusts to helps me, but who didn’ts really knows me porsonallies.”

“But whys?”

He folds, closing himself off. “Because,” he says, “I felts likesa monsters! She lets me stays at her summers house, on deh beach, where I coulds be alones for a whiles. She was kinds to me, but she didn’ts acks me too many questions, or gets too close. And dats was what I neededs, rights den; I wasn’t readies for deh people I cares about deh most to sees me like dis.” His voice falters. “I scares evens myselfs— I can’ts imagines what I must looks like to you.” 

You don’t look scary to me, Skwisgaar wants to say. But that would be a lie. And he’s not sure how Toki would respond to the truth at this juncture: Okay yes, you’re really scary. But not in like, an _ unattractive _way.

“Sos,” he says, opting for neutrality. “Dat’s where yous been all dis times.” 

“Ja.” Toki shrugs. “Just stayings in dat house. Tryinks to fizgures out what I ams now. And how to copes wid’ it.”

“And nows? Yous fizgureds it outs?”

He unfolds, placing both hands on his chest and taking a deep breath, as if to test whether he still has lungs. “Sort ofs,” he says. “Forsa long times, I just sats dere, on deh screens-in porch, starings out at deh oceans. I realizeds I didn’ts needs to eats, or sleeps, or even breathes. I lets myself go porfectly stills, for what seemeds likes days, and it felts like my body was made of stone. I felts… so empties. I tries t’ings, like tornings deh sinks on, and runnings deh waters over my hands. It was likes… I could tells ifs it was hot or colds, but I couldn’ts _feels _it. I trieds bornings myselfs, wiffs a lighters. I trieds drinkings deh beers in deh fridge. I couldn’ts seems to feels any kinda… pleasures or pains. It was exacktlies what I hads feareds would happens to me. Deh darkness tooks away my humans body, and all my humans feelings. And lefts me wiffs dis… empties frozen voids, wheres my body shoulds be.”

“But… But yous okei now, rights?”

Toki smiles. “I was despairings,” he says, “forsa whiles. It seemeds likes I mights never be ables to enjoys anyt’ing, evers agains. But I realizeds dere was one t’ing I could stills enjoys.” He stands up, and walks over to the rack where Skwisgaar’s Explorer is holstered. Reverent hands unrack the instrument and assume playing position. “Whiles I was at deh beach house, I wrotes a little songs,” he says. “Nuffin’ too fancies, but. Woulds you likes to hears it?”

Skwisgaar stands, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Ja.” He nods. He walks over to set up the wireless amp, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Plays it for me.”

Nervous, but excited, Toki takes a deep breath and begins. It’s a simple, melodic passage, that sounds nothing like Dethklok. But Toki’s fingering is clean and sure, and the thrumming darkness of his body serves to complement the sound. Skwisgaar closes his eyes, to better take it all in. 

“Does you recognizes it?” Toki asks once he’s finished.

“Abigails.” Skwisgaar opens his eyes to find Toki beaming at him.

“Den I’s rights.” Toki replaces the Explorer in its stand and approaches the bed. “Deh musics insides peoples; You hears it deh same ways.”

Skwisgaar smiles. Even now, he’s taken aback by what a joy it is, to share this with someone. “Ja. I does.”

“I hears deh musics insides everyt’ing nows,” says Toki. He sits down next to Skwisgaar, trapping his hands between his thighs. “Dat becames deh one goods thing I clings to. And from dere, I starts looking for ways to feels goods, wiffouts havings humans sensakchuns no mores.”

“Den you don’t…?” Skwisgaar’s heart clenches. “You still don’t feels…?”

“Wells.” Toki looks bashful. “I’s not sures, exactlies.” He looks down at his hands, turning them open like he’s never seen them before. “My body ams real scaries and weirds,” he says. “Its _ does _ haves feelings, I thinks. Dhey’s just… real differents, from when I was humans.” He strokes the inside of his arm with his knuckles, frowning in concentration. “But, maybe it amn’ts so bads. Maybe I just needs to gets used to dis body, and re-learns what I likes.” His hands form slow fists. “When I forst wokes up like dis,” he creaks, “I wanteds you so terribles much. I wanteds to runs to you and begs you to holds me and lets me feel somet’ing good agains. But I realizeds I couldn’t.”

“Why nots?” Skwisgaar asks, glaring straight ahead. The hurt roils in him, but he swallows down his questions and demands. Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you trust me? He doesn’t want Toki to see how abandoned he felt. He doesn’t want to lash out in his hurt, and risk making Toki’s suffering even worse. He needs to understand. 

“I realizeds dat I couldn’t just goes to you and acks you to fixes me.” 

His face crumples. “I woulds have helpeds. I _ wanteds _to helps.”

“I knows,” says Toki. “But I neededs to be ables to makes my egg-zistence bearables on my owns. I neededs to proves to myselfs dat… Dat I’s not just yous shadow.” 

“Yous _ nots_,” Skwisgaar pleads with him. His throat is burning. It’s increasingly difficult to speak. 

Toki smiles wearily, twisting at the waist to face him. “But I knew dat ifs I hads to relies on you dat much, I’ds resents you,” he says. “And I’s afraids dat you woulds resents me, ifs I just takes and takes from you. I wanteds to be ables to comes homes to you and says:” He takes a breath, clasping his hands like he’s been rehearsing this part in his head, “‘I’s a whole porson, and I sees you as a whole porson. And I loves you, and I wants to be togethers wiffs you.’”

Skwisgaar bows his head, overwhelmed. “I loves you, too,” he mouths, almost inaudible. 

“Anyways,” says Toki, “now dat I’s showns I can be real braves and deals wid’ it by myselfs and everyt’ing…” He pouts, a smile in his eyes. “Woulds you please makes me feels real goods and gives me all deh healings?”

This is all the invitation Skwisgaar needs to tackle him and roll them over into the center of the bed. He straddles Toki’s hips, bending to kiss him while working up the hem of his shirt. 

“_Oh_—” Toki cries out.

“You feels dat?” Skwisgaar rasps, kissing his way down Toki’s chest. 

“I— _ Nnnngg_—” Toki tosses and moans, blue veins glowing at his wrists and throat as Skwisgaar glides fingertips over his ribs, teasing him with little pulses of lightning. 

“Don’t worries,” Skwisgaar says, sliding down Toki’s legs and unbuttoning his pants. “We’s gonna fizgures out what you likes,” he promises, reaching in.

He watches, enthralled, as Toki responds to his first, experimental strokes. The properties of Toki’s flesh are _ baffling_. He is made of what feels like warm, soft, living marble. The raised scars that once covered his back and shoulders are smoothed down, and where they once were he is marked with marble-esque mineral lines, like whorling silverblue tattoos. His atoms are motionless, as if he exists outside of spacetime, and the centimeter of air around him seems distorted, like the event horizon at the lip of a black hole. As he peels off his own shirt and tosses it onto the floor, Skwisgaar finds himself wondering whether _ he _appears anywhere close to this strange from the outside. The body squirming beneath him is so uncanny and inhuman, that a part of Skwisgaar finds it truly off-putting; But he can’t deny the way his own inhuman body is responding to it. Every point of contact crackles with energy, and it’s impossible to ignore that he is touching another god.

He sends little tickling jolts over Toki’s flanks, preparing to take him in his mouth. The room shakes, and one of Skwisgaar’s floor lamps explodes. “Was dat me or you?” he chuckles, resurfacing for air. 

“S-sorries—” Toki whimpers. 

Without pausing in his efforts, Skwisgaar reaches up to grab Toki’s hands, and brings them to his own head, wordlessly guiding them to tug— not _ too _hard —on his hair. Skwisgaar loves to feel desired and sexually generous, to see evidence of his partner’s pleasure, and his own incomparable skill; But the feeling is especially poignant now. Any doubts he may have had about his ability to satisfy Toki’s new body are banished by the quivering of Toki’s thighs, the hands in Skwisgaar’s hair.

Skwisgaar hollows his cheeks, and Toki slaps the mattress beside him, like he’s tapping out of a wrestling match. When he glances upward, Toki’s head is thrown back, his eyes swallowed in beams of bluewhite light. He can’t last much longer. Skwisgaar hums around him, amused and gratified by Toki’s begging and squirming, and expertly coaxes him all the way through climax.

“_Nnnngggg_, ohfucks—” Toki’s marble skin shimmers with sweat, his face and chest flushing an extraordinary violetpink. His trembling arms grasp in Skwisgaar’s approximate direction. “Comes heres,” he begs, catching his breath.

Obliging, Skwisgaar climbs up the mattress and lies down beside him. 

“Sos, uh.” Toki blushes, his eyelashes flicking downward. “Dat ams definitelies resolvings deh questions of whethers I ams still capables to be feelings pleasure.” 

“Oh, ja?” Skwisgaar asks, trying to keep his self-satisfied smirk to an appropriate minimum. 

Toki reaches for Skwisgaar’s waist, plainly marveling at his own ability to touch, and Skwisgaar copies the gesture, watching the wild play of emotions on Toki’s face.

“Its really feels like yous touchings me,” Toki half-sobs.

“I ams.”

“But I means, I _really_ _feels _it! I was afraids I wouldn’t be ables to feels anyt’ing like dis.” 

The heat of his breath makes Skwisgaar tingle— His breath, his voice, his heartbeat are impossible, his motionless particles somehow imitating life. The rich, dark music of his soul draws Skwisgaar instinctively closer. He curls into Toki’s embrace, becoming more and more seduced by this strange creature the longer they touch. His own body seems to recognize what’s happening, and he is in no mood to refuse it.

“Whats ams it likes?” he asks gently. 

“It’s so weirds!” says Toki. “Everyt’ing feels so differents!” He skims his fingertips over the pearls of Skwisgaar’s spine. His callouses are like throbbing points of atomic ultra-density, like mini neutron stars. “But even dhough it ams a differents sensakchun…” he says, “its still feels likes touchings: full intimates and everyt’ing. I dunno how to describes it.” He inhales against Skwisgaar’s neck, and Skwisgaar can feel his tremulous smile. “Dis ams pure greats,” he sighs. “Honestlies, I was prepareds to settles for a lots less.”

Skwisgaar stretches to pull the covers over them. “Pffft, settles fors me? We’s gods,” he says, arcing his body luxuriantly against Toki’s as they negotiate a good cuddling position. “Probablies wills be causinks naturals disasters when we fucks.”

Toki giggles, despair ebbing out of him as they tangle together under the covers. Skwisgaar can feel the song within him turning to one of relief and gratitude. “Okei, _ super _honestlies?” Toki says hoarsely. “I was kinda bluffings befores, because I didn’t wants to seems likesa big crybaby.” He clasps Skwisgaar as close as he can, drinking the feeling of skin-on-skin. “But now I’s really thinkings: Maybes dis coulds actually be bearables. Maybes I coulds really lorns to lives likes dis. I was thinkings I shoulds really avoids touchings anybodies, at least until I can be sures it won’ts horts dem; But beings ables to touches you like dis ams enoughs.” 

Skwisgaar slides his cheek over one of Toki’s pecs. “Nots to puts too fine a point on it,” he looks up from Toki’s chest, giving him a playful squeeze, “but ifs dere ams gonna be only one porson you can touches, you coulds be doing a lot worse den, eugh… porhaps deh most accomplished lover in deh world?”

“Ffffff—!” Toki laughs. “You don’t hasta be so modest.” He stills, lowering his eyelashes. “Ohkay, but seriouslies. Nots to be revoltingly shallows, but it don’ts horts dat you real hots.” 

As they lie together, heartbeats slowing, Skwisgaar’s smile relaxes and he closes his eyes. There is something deeply compelling about New Toki. Something beyond the thrill of novelty or the gravity of physical attraction. His body sings like a tuning fork under Toki’s touch. He finds himself actually swooning as the vibrations within them harmonize, bringing them into some sort of cosmic equilibrium. Tears escape him at the devastating intimacy of it. 

“_Toki—_” he croaks. “_Fucks._” He mashes his face into Toki’s chest.

“Whas wrongs?”

“Damnit, Toki. I don’t wants it to be deh ends of deh worlds! I’s not readies for dat! I just wants to bes wit’ you,” he sobs. How is it fair that after all this time, just when he’s finally worked up the courage to actually open his heart to someone, it has to be right on the cusp of the fucking apocalpyse? 

“Wells,” Toki ponders aloud, “maybe deh ends of deh worlds won’t be all bads? We’s got each others. We’s gonna has our pals wid’ us. And I thinks when it comes, we’s gonna grows wings in real lifes,” he offers. “Dhat’s pretty cools.”

“Reallies?” Skwisgaar shivers. Wings _ could _be pretty cool. “But even ifs we makes it t’rough deh end of deh worlds,” he groans. “Den whats?” 

“Den whats?” Toki repeats. “You tells me.”

Vertigo swallows Skwisgaar at the thought of eternity, stretching outward from this bed, in every direction. No floor, no ceiling, no walls. No escape. “What ifs— Toki, what ifs we really can’ts dies?” he asks, his chest heaving with panic. “I- I thinks abouts livings forevers, and I just— I wants to, I don’t knows Toki. I wants to rips dis flesh offa me. I wants to gets _ outs_. But it won’t lets me. It won’t… _ releases me_. Toki, _ I’m so scareds. _ What ifs dere ams _ no way outs?_”

Toki’s head nudges him. “I- I knows,” Toki breathes. “I’s tryings to stay positives, but.” His lip trembles. “When I forst thoughts about possiblies beings… imprisons, in dis _thing_, forevers— It seemeds like one of dhose horribles punishments for deh wickeds peoples in deh Bibles. Likes beings torned into a pillar of salts, or somet’ing. When dhey tolds me dat kinda stuff in church as a kids, I used to haves nightsmares about it. And now, it ams my real lifes!” He pauses, the droning event horizon around his body convecting the air. “But we haves to tries,” he says. “Looks at me.” 

A warm hand turns Skwisgaar’s wet cheek, and he is gazing into the dazzling, opal eyes of Death. Blue pupils swell with recognition, and instead of fear, Skwisgaar is filled with the deepest reservoir of belonging and oneness. 

“We keeps each others companies,” Toki promises. “We keeps each others sanes. We does whatever we hasta do to makes it bearables. Okei?”

Speechless, Skwisgaar answers with a fervent nod. Their faces are so close that their noses brush against each other with every breath. The urge to breath is still present, even though oxygen is unnecessary. Just like the urge to eat, and drink, and rest. Is it pure habit? Will these vestigial appetites fade with time? Skwisgaar kisses Toki’s mouth, grimly resolving to hang onto them as much as possible.

“I mets deh Hafz Man, too,” he says, after a while. “And He tortureds me.” Toki’s arms clench reflexively around him, and Skwisgaar scrunches his eyes shut, savoring the feeling. He has never felt so safe, so cherished and protected, as in the soul-reaving arms of Death. “He says He ams gonna tortures me forevers. It ams my worst fears, Toki. Havings someone horts me, again and agains— And den seeings my body erases it, again and agains. Likes I imagineds deh whole thing. I don’ts knows why dat makes it so much worse, but.” He shudders. “Its does. Deh- Deh lack ofs evidence makes it so much worse.” 

“No one ams evers goings to horts you likes dat agains,” says Toki. “You knows why?”

“Why?”

He growls, “Because I’ll fucking kills dem.” 

At last, Skwisgaar relinquishes the final thread of tension within him. This is exactly what he was aching to hear. He exhales in contentment, enveloped in these powerful arms; Trusting completely in the invincible body of his protector. 

“I know you saids He hates me deh most,” he muses. “But why?”

“Because,” says Toki, a certain fierceness entering his tone. Jealousy? “You reminds Him of His loves.”

Skwisgaar raises an incredulous brow. “His… _ loves?_”

“Ja,” says Toki. “He used to bes… likes me. And She was likes you.”

“You means… dhey was…?” 

“Life and Death. Dere ams always beens a pair likes us; Sometimes dhey’s friends, sometimes dhey’s enemies. Sometimes… dhey falls in loves. But dhey ams always naturallies drawns to each others.”

Skwisgaar is struck by the memory of the first time he laid eyes on Toki— Toki’s very first words to him— That instantaneous spark. Yes, he should have said. I _ do _ feel it. But he was such a different person then. 

“He was once in loves wid’ Lifes,” Toki says. “He thoughts dhey was gonna spends etornities togethers. But den, He horts Her— He betrayeds Her, in a way dat She coulds never forgives. And He lost Her forevers. So nows…” Toki worries his lip. “He ams been alones for ages. He ams forgottens whats it’s likes to bes in loves. And He wants to punishes you for it. But He won’ts nevers gets His hands on you.” He kisses Skwisgaar jaw, his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. “I won’ts nevers lets Him.” 

“Fucks dat guy.” Skwisgaar kisses him back, in the same order. 

The prospect of eternity is suddenly a lot less daunting when he imagines them spending it holding each other like this, and making music for each other. They lapse into silence, watching the sun set over Mordhaus. 

“Hey, Skwisgaar,” Toki whispers against his neck. “I bet I’s gonna be way more gooders den you at flyings.” 

And Skwisgaar laughs, the music ringing in his ears, breathless with the knowledge that he has done nothing to deserve this perfect love. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s not long before the media catches up with him. 

One day, Dethklok wakes up, and Mordhaus is surrounded by cars, and buses, and news helicopters, and an army of ardent pilgrims, whose waving signs and placards beg, in various ways, for Skwisgaar’s blessing. 

Skwisgaar sits at the breakfast table, blithely enjoying his morning coffee, as Offdensen attempts to coax a statement out of him for his official press release. 

“Look at all thesche schad-schacksch,” Murderface tuts, fogging the glass with his breath as he stands at the window to gawk. “Oh ‘Boo-hoo, I’m dying, pleasche schave my life!’ Don’t they know life isch meaninglessch?”

Pickles moves his scrambled eggs around his plate, irritated. “Are we gonna hafta deal with dis during dah tour? I mean, dis is bullshit, right?” He threads a hand into his dreadlocks. “I mean. Dis— we’re on— dis is private prahperty. Right?” 

“Ja, Pickle. Das— hhhmmgggg —real bullshits.” Toki is too absorbed with happily inhaling a tower of pancakes to contribute much to the conversation, but he chimes in now and then, just to stay included. 

“Probablies next dhey wills be wantings me to fixes global warmings or somet’ink,” Skwisgaar scoffs. “You knows, like, sticks my dick in deh grounds and fucks deh Earth. Like Cronos.”

Nathan whips out his recorder. “Possible song title: Fuck the Earth.”

“Okay but: Seriously, though.” Offdensen peers around Murderface’s bulk. “What are we gonna tell all these people?”

Skwisgaar shrugs. “Tells dem: Deh gods ams capricious,” he says icily. 

“So, uh, you’re just gonna let them all die?” asks Nathan. “Brutal.” 

“No,” says Skwisgaar. “Sometimes, like ats a show maybes, I saves a littles kids who ams dyings from deh kancers, or somet’inks like dat. Just, euh-pow. Totalies randoms. Whenever I feels like it.” 

“Why?”

“Because Nat’an,” he says, pausing to sip his coffee and luxuriate in himself. “Hopes ams deh most brutal emokchuns of alls.” 

“Woah,” says Nathan, duly impressed. 

“So, to be clear,” says Offdensen, impatient, “you want me to put all of that in the press release?”

“Ja.” Skwisgaar smiles. 

  
“Well,” Offdensen sighs. “I guess it’s _ on brand_, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Show don't tell?" I don't know her.


	12. Chapter 12

Murderface balances a Pickles Nickel on his thumbnail, holding it over the coffee table. “Call it!” he cries, pointing at Nathan with his other hand. 

“It doesn’t work that way,” Nathan grumbles. 

They’re moping around the rec room, half-watching an episode of _ Where Are They Now, Now? _featuring Mangalore Galangal. As the narrator has just finished explaining, lead singer Bildo Živanović is serving an eight-year prison sentence for wire fraud. They’ve been spending a lot of time on indoor activities, as the large and growing encampment of Skwisgaar’s worshipers have made them reluctant to leave the haus.

“C’mon, call it!” says Murderface.

“Callit, callit, _ callit!_” Pickles chants.

“Fine!” Nathan scrambles. “Uh, uh, heads!” 

The coin cascades through the air and Murderface catches it, slapping the back of his wrist. 

Tails. 

“Dood,” says Pickles, “you’ve called four outta dah last twelve, dhat’s… worse den pure chance. Face it: Ya can’t tell dah future.”

“Yes I can! But I told you guys, it doesn’t work that way.” Nathan stoops to grab another beer from the cooler and Murderface flicks the coin at the back of his head. “Ow! What the fuck!” he growls.

“You didn’t schee _ that _ coming.”

“Cause I’m not Spider-man!” He rubs the base of his skull, popping his beer open on the edge of the coffee table and hucking the cap at Murderface’s nose in retaliation. He takes a contemplative sip and peers through the green glass. “I’m more of a… That’s So Raven.”

Pickles shrugs. “I guess Toki an’ Skwisgaar’s powers’re real. So _ maybe _ dis whole prahphesy thing is real, too. Shit, I dunno.” He takes a swig. “Does dhat mean all of us have powers?”

“Oh, oh,” asks Murderface, excited, “what are _ my _ powersch gonna be? Wait, no—” He raises his hand. “Don’t tell me! Argh- or, actually- Do tell me! Wait, no.”

Skwisgaar is sitting alone on an adjacent sofa, mindlessly plucking ice cream chords and debating whether or not to intervene, when Toki appears beside him. 

“Hey,” Toki says, bowing meekly to talk in Skwisgaar’s ear as the other guys turn to stare at them. Shimmery bronze hair brushes against Skwisgaar’s bare shoulder, sending shivers down his spine.

“Ja?” he whispers, giving a gentle smile. Supportive and encouraging as he can manage. 

Toki has been taking to his new condition surprisingly well, all things considered. The more he embraces his new body and allows himself to be present within it, the more he is able to access its version of physical sensation. Simple pleasures he thought he’d been robbed of completely are returning to him in new forms. The taste of pancakes, the smell of fresh laundry, the comfort of a hot shower— Skwisgaar could watch him joyfully rediscovering these things forever. 

The other guys were initially freaked out by the droning eldritch horror seated across from them at breakfast, but they’re starting to relax around him now that they know he’s the same little goofball inside. Still, there’s a certain degree of wariness. Outside of meals and band practice, Toki’s been spending a lot of time in seclusion, and when he does join the group he hovers quietly at Skwisgaar’s elbow, trying to subdue his dark presence as much as possible. Above all, he is determined not to scare or hurt anyone. 

“Can I shows you somet’ink?” he asks.

Skwisgaar nods, gathering his guitar and following Toki out into the hall. Behind them, the television narrator is introducing the Belgrade New Wave scene of the late 1970s and explaining how Cvetko “Sugar Lips” Krsmanović ended up getting dismembered with a chainsaw and buried in several different drums of concrete by the Serbian mafia. 

Away from the others, Toki grabs his hand, vibrating with excitement. “Yous not gonna believe dis,” he says. 

His touch is always a comfort. Skwisgaar curls against him, kissing his temple and enjoying his joy. “Wheres you takings me?” he asks. 

“Deh studio,” says Toki, tugging on Skwisgaar’s hand. “I hasta shows you somet’ink; Come on, kisses laters!”

“Mmmnn oukay,” Skwisgaar hums. But it’s hard to stop. He is drawn to New Toki in a primeval, wordless way that makes constant touching almost compulsory. 

In the studio, Toki gestures for him to sit. “I’s been goings back over some of our old stuffs,” he says. “T’ings I could never seems to get right. T’ings I’s always wished I coulds plays.” He plugs his guitar in and fixes his posture. He looks giddy and nervous. “Listens:” he says. Eyes closed, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, he launches into a galloping passage full of flourishes and trills. 

Skwisgaar leans forward, taking it in. It’s from a demo they had to scrap during the recording of their second album. Skwisgaar was fond of that main melody line, but he couldn’t sell Nathan and Pickles on it. It had kind of an expansive, twinkling, medieval quest vibe. 

Toki’s eyes fly open. He is playing the melody line, Skwisgaar’s part, from memory. The aura around his body is charged with emotion, causing his hair and clothes to do that thing they sometimes do now where they float like he’s under water. “Do you _hears_ dat?” he gushes. “I’m so good nows!” His legato is technically flawless. Silver chords pour from his fingertips as euphoria and disbelief compete for purchase on his face. 

Skwisgaar squeezes his knees together, smothering a pang of guilt. “Yous always been goods.”

“Ha!” says Toki. The passage finishes with a triumphant ring, as he windmills his pick hand. “Don’t gives me dat!” 

“It ams trues. You hasn’t always lived up to it but, ehhhh. Yous always had deh potentials. You coulda playeds dat, befores.”

“You don’t understands,” says Toki. “It ams _ differents _nows.” He flexes his blueish hands, turning them over in awe. “All deh sudden, it comes so naturalies. I hears deh musics everywheres, and I can just— plays it!” Without missing a beat, he jumps right into another one of Skwisgaar’s old demos. “Ams dat what it’s likes for you?” he asks. “Beings able to plays likes dis?”

“I guess sos.” Skwisgaar bites his lip. There is a note of sadness in witnessing Toki’s elation. You were good before, he wants to insist. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t. 

“I remembers watching you ands t’inkings, ‘I’d kills to play likes him,’” Toki laughs. “I didn’t means it quite so literallies, but, ehhh…” His smile is stretched to its quivering limit. “I thought dis was gonna be unbearables,” he says tearily. “But it’s _ nots_. I’s startings to actually _ likes _myself dis way.”

A sharp, sweet sting pricks at Skwisgaar’s heart. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Words? Words are hard. 

Toki’s smile falters. “Oh no, says somet’ing,” he pleads. He drops his hands, the Flying V dangling from his body by the strap. Gravity returns, and his hair floats back down to drape across his shoulders. “I has it now,” he says fervently. “I has… deh _ gift_. I thought you’d be happies.” He takes a step towards the sofa. “I’m not a stupids little kid anymores,” he offers. “I’m strongs. I can takes care of you. And now I can plays… whatever you needs me to plays. I thought dat’s what you wanteds.”

A previous version of Skwisgaar might have lashed out, overwhelmed by contradictory emotions: Panic at the thought of Toki transcending him. Grief at the thought of Toki no longer needing him. Pride in his protégé’s new talents. Joy at watching Toki realize his dreams. These, along with resentment, jealousy, ecstasy, rage, frustration, arousal, inspiration, and love form a non-exhaustive list of the feelings Toki’s guitar playing has, at one time or another, evoked in him. 

He walks around the coffee table and plugs in his Explorer. There are no words adequate to convey what he is feeling now. Instead, he tosses Toki a run of fiery, aching chords. 

A sharp intake of breath, and it’s clear Toki has received the invitation to duel. He tosses Skwisgaar’s melody back to him with a face-swallowing grin. The fizz of dark energy envelopes his body again, lifting his hair, his amp cable, the hem of his shirt, through a series of pentatonic drops and slides. 

Skwisgaar pivots, string-skipping through D major arpeggios and grinning as Toki follows on seamlessly, almost seeming to anticipate him. It’s mesmerizing to hear his own compositions executed so flawlessly in Toki’s instrumental voice. Even as he echos Skwisgaar chord for chord, his style is unmistakably distinct. 

At times, there can be a sterility to Skwisgaar’s own highly technical fretwork which he is at pains to resist. When he’s depressed and uninspired, he can sound overworked and overpracticed, articulating every note like a machine. And at such times, there is nothing like playing with Toki to force him out of his rut and restore some suspense. There is a raw, driving hunger to Toki’s sound which has always captivated him. At Skwisgaar’s best, his own sound is a tower of incandescent passion, an orgiastic celebration of its own spontaneous virtuosity, not the slightest bit sterile or rote. And nothing brings this out in him like Toki giving frenzied, ravenous chase.

The melody plunges and soars as Toki matches every riff in an exhilarating call and response. Their amps buzz, pens, and paperclips, and other small articles rising into the air as Toki’s power fills the studio. Skwisgaar cranes towards him as they play their hearts out, half expecting their feet to leave the ground, too. 

Join me, the Thunderhorse cries. Play with me. Follow me into eternity. 

I am yours, sings the Snow Falcon. We are one. Lead me into eternity. 

They circle each other, drifting unconsciously closer, stepping over the turning cables as Skwisgaar changes up the key. Faster, harder, his crackling whitegold fingers hammer on a run of searing licks. I am the Light, they cry. I am the Sun. Worship me. 

And Toki follows on every lick and trill, drawing inexorably nearer, his pale eyes blown open with wonder. Skwisgaar can see and feel that this is everything he’s ever wanted. Not to usurp him, as in Skwisgaar’s more paranoid ideations. Just to keep up with him, to be close to him, in that way only Toki has ever managed to get so close. 

My only wish, Toki’s eyes are saying, is to protect, and serve, and complement your genius; Never to exploit it, or try to extract and bottle it. Only to be a part of it, and to share in it, and to help you discover it. Your beauty is not a public resource. Your talent is not some sort of rare earth mineral. You are not a thing to be consumed. For all my flaws, for all my moments of bitterness towards you, I have never, never once, not even for a single second, looked at you in the way you most fear: as a series of disembodied, consumable parts. I have always seen _ you_. I have always admired, and envied, and resented, and adored _ you_, in all your specificity and completeness.

This time, it’s Skwisgaar who blows the last part. With a screech of feedback, his lips are on Toki’s, guitars shrieking and clattering between them. Floating objects fall to the floor around them. His heart is pounding, his hair damp and cooling with sweat. The tickle of Toki’s moustache sends a wash of heat over his skin.

Toki breaks the kiss only to lift the strap over his head, setting his instrument aside and waiting for Skwisgaar to do the same in order to give them unobstructed access to each other’s bodies. In a single, inhumanly fluid motion, he sweeps Skwisgaar off his feet and swings him around the coffee table onto the sofa. His muscles flow like liquid metal. His movements are totally smooth and frictionless, his unstoppable, indestructible body, cutting through reality like a shimmering knife. 

The feeling of being protected and cared for by this invincible creature is utterly addictive. Skwisgaar can’t wait to be enveloped in his strength. He lies back, pulling Toki down on top of him and hungrily seeking his mouth. 

“Yous doin’ so goods,” he rasps between kisses. “I’m so proud of you.” Toki’s heavy, stonelike body is warm and yielding under his hands. 

“Mmmmmmm dats dat good stuff,” says Toki, stretching his legs in pleasure. “Shoots dat right inzta my veins.”

“I’s being serious!” 

“Me toos!” he laughs. 

Skwisgaar kisses deeper, sweeping his tongue over Toki’s warm palette, reaching under his shirt to grasp and kneed at his rippling, marble-smooth back. A powerful, melding feeling pours over him, dissolving his self-control like sugar in hot water and melting down his thoughts into a luscious simple syrup. New Toki is everything he could ever have hoped for in a… Well, what are they to each other now, exactly? A ‘partner?’ ‘Boyfriend’ seems like a laughably inadequate name to give his sole companion for the rest of eternity. In any case, New Toki is everything Skwisgaar could ever have hoped for. 

Instinct curls them tightly together, chests flush, vibrations harmonizing, the way they’ve spent every night since Toki’s return. When they get like this, it’s hard to pull away. Time slips, and it’s easy to lose track of how long they’ve been lying here, listening to each other’s heartbeats. Their rib cages contract and swell against each other, bringing the melding feeling in glowing waves. 

Skwisgaar has never believed in destiny; There was a time when the idea of being brought together with Toki by fate would have offended his sense of self determination. Now though, it seems pointless to quibble with the circumstances. Everything about New Toki seems designed to pull him in like a magnet, to force him to fuse, body and soul, with his cosmically preordained other half. And perhaps uncharacteristically, Skwisgaar can’t think of any good reason to resist it. Succumbing to this fate is his only hope, his only guarantee against an eternity of loneliness. 

And anyway, it feels good. He is tired of pretense and pride. Tired of trying to control everything. He just wants to finally feel good. 

Toki groans, after who knows how many minutes have passed. His warm palms press at Skwisgaar’s flanks, stimulating him with the magnetic ultra-density of their touch. “_I just wanna be enough for you_,” he says.

“_You are_ _enough._”

He props himself on Skwisgaar’s chest, peering into his eyes. “Enough forevers?” he asks. “Are you sures?” 

Skwisgaar squeezes him. “I’m sures.”

“But what ifs you changes yous mind a hundred years from now? A _ millions _years from now?”

He sits up, sliding out from under Toki’s weight and taking his hand. For some reason, the thought of ‘a million years from now’ makes him even more dizzy than the thought of ‘forever.’ There’s just something so nauseously concrete about it. “Don’t says dat,” he pleads. “Don’t- We don’t hasta worries about nonna dat nows. Just takes it as it comes.”

Toki kneels beside him on the sofa. “You won’t get sick of me?” he asks. 

“No,” Skwisgaar promises.

“Well what if you gets real mad at me?” Toki creaks. “What if I fucks up? I feels like I has everyt’ing under controls now, but what if I doesn’t? Deh Darkness insides me ams great and terribles. And so far, we’s only seen deh very sorface of it.”

“I’s told you,” says Skwisgaar, “I’s not afraid ofs dat.” His fingers skim down Toki’s throat, pausing over the core of dark power in his chest. Death is tame and sweet for him. He feels completely safe, completely at home with its current incarnation. “Besides.” He smirks. “I ams obviously more powerfuls den you.”

“Psssh! Whats?” says Toki. “Says who?”

“Ja.” Skwisgaar shrugs, nodding reasonably. “My powers ams affectings you way more den yours affects me. You can horts me a only a littles bit, but I can heals you a lots.” 

“Dat ams because I lets you! Because it feels good! It amn’t an equals comparisons.”

“Oukay, Toki,” he says. “You knows whats dis means.” He loops his arms around Toki’s shoulders, enjoying his affronted sputtering. “Dere ams only one ways to resolves dis question empiricallies.”

“Oh, ja?” Toki snorts. “What ams dat?”

Skwisgaar leans forward, further indulging the impulse towards affectionate teasing by rubbing their noses together. “You has to tries to kill somet’ing, and I has to tries to stops you,” he says. “Dat ams just, eugh, you knows. Science.” 

“Ffffff—! Well den, you _ also _has to tries to brings somet’ing what ams already deads backs to lifes, whiles I tries to stops you!” Toki noses him back, defiant. “And Moidaface will judges deh contest.”

“Why hims?” 

“He ams unpartials, because he hate everybody equallies.”

Skwisgaar laughs. “Oh, ja. Dat makes sense.” Sobering, he reaches to cup Toki’s face. “Hey,” he says.

“Ja?” Toki nuzzles his hand.

“Don’t worries so much, abouts fuckings t’ings up, okei?”

Toki’s mouth puckers. “But- But I _ can’ts—_”

“You don’t hasta be porfect,” Skwisgaar says. He strokes his thumb over Toki’s jaw. “Yous enoughs. And I’m not just… sayings dat because yous all I have. If I hads deh choice of anybody in dis whole world, to bes my- my. I would have chosen you anyways. Maybe- Maybe I even dids, somehows.”

Heartened, Toki slides his chin into the crook of Skwisgaar’s neck, embracing him again. The darkness purrs with relief, and gratitude, and boundless, unconditional love. And Skwisgaar realizes he means it, every word. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The familiar sound of Nathan’s aura enters the studio before he does, giving them ample time to separate and fix their hair and clothes. He can probably guess that they’ve been making out in here, but that doesn’t mean they want him to see it. 

“Hey, Skwisgaar.” He stands in front of the coffee table, phone pressed to his ear. “Uh-huh. Yeah,” he says into the receiver, an awkward, pained expression on his face. He lifts the phone away from his ear, muffling the receiver against his shirt. “Hey, Skwisgaar, it’s uhh… Your mother. Trying to call you. On _ my _phone.”

Skwisgaar’s heart clenches. “Godsdamnit,” he hisses. “Why does she even haves your number?”

“Well, she’s—” Nathan brings the phone back up to his ear. “Yeah,” he says into the receiver, “I know. I- I’m trying.” He turns back to Skwisgaar. “She’s at my parents’ house in Florida. She says she’s been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. So she just. Packed up and flew to the US.” 

“Whats?!”

“Yeah.” 

“_Fucks._” 

“So, uh.”

“Ffffffff—”

“Do you wanna. Talk. To her?” Nathan muffles the phone again. “Cause _ I _ don’t wanna fucken talk to her,” he says helplessly. 

Skwisgaar stands up, grabs the phone from Nathan’s hand, and brings it to his ear.

“_I__t’s true_,” he says, without preamble. “_What they’re saying about me on TV, or whatever you’re looking at. It’s true_.” 

He strides out into the hallway, feeling Nathan and Toki’s eyes on the back of his neck. His heart is pounding. 

“_I know_,” says Serveta.

“_What?!_” He stops in the middle of the stairs outside the studio. “_You _knew?”

“_Well, no_,” she says. “_I didn’t _know_. But it sure explains a few things, in retrospect._”

“_Oh, you mean like that one time you got fucked by a literal god?_” he retorts, pacing down the stairs. “_What, is it just now coming back to you all of a sudden? You’d think he’d stand out a bit from, you know, _the crowd—”

“_It wasn’t anything like that_,” she says. “_I’m sorry. I’m sorry about— I don’t know, I’m just sorry._” 

“_Wow. Cool._” 

“_Look, you don’t have to— I just wanted to make sure you were okay._”

In the corridor outside the studio, he sinks into one of the vaulted window niches, pulling his knees towards his chest like a kid. Hundreds of meters below him, the swelling encampment flashes with bonfires and colorful banners, begging and praying for his miraculous intercession. The news helicopters, at least, are all gone, having been repeatedly shot down by the klokateers.

“_I’m great_,” he says, automatically defensive.

She pauses. 

He hugs his knees with his non-phone holding arm, waiting for her to respond. 

“_Did _ you _ know you were…_” 

“_No._”

“..._ whatever you are?_”

“_Not really._”

“_But you somehow discovered this? Recently?_” 

“_Yeah._”

She pauses again.

He swallows, making a token effort to hold back the tears he knows are coming any second now.

“_And is it…? Are you okay?_” she asks softly. 

He presses his eye socket into his knee, savoring the grain of the denim against his face. Letting the fabric absorb his hot tears. He’s been preparing for this conversation, in one way or another, since he first discovered his powers. But he’s spent so much time anticipating and dreading all of his mother’s potential responses, that he’s never really gotten around to figuring out what he was going to say. “_I’m… okay_,” he says. “_I’m just. Different now._”

“_Do you like it?_” she asks. “_Being different, I mean._”

There are so many competing answers to this. But which one to give _ her? _ Better to keep it simple. “_Yeah, I mean. Yeah. I like it._”

“_That’s good_.”

“_Also,_” he blurts, “_I’m in love_.”

“_Oh. That’s?_”

“_Yeah_.”

“_Really?_” she asks. She sounds surprised, but in a good way. A way that, he finds, doesn’t hurt him. 

He uncurls, leaning back against the sun-baked stone of the window well. “_He’s- First of all, it’s a ‘he.’ So._”

“_Oh, okay._” She actually sounds _ less _ surprised now, which makes Skwisgaar wonder. “_I mean, that’s great_.”

“_Anyway he’s like me_,” Skwisgaar continues. “_So that. That really helps._” 

“_You mean?_” she sounds concerned. “_There are _more…?”

“_Yeah. I mean, sort of. A few. It’s hard to explain._”

“_But you’re…? You’re happy?_”

“_Yeah._” He takes a deep breath. “_I love him. We’re both happy._”

He can hear her smile through the phone. “_I’m glad_.”

“_So._”

“_So?_”

“_I mean. That’s it, I guess. Good talk._” He stiffens, preparing to hang up. 

“_Skwisgaar_.”

“_What?_” He halts.

“_Thank you for, you know. Picking up this time. It’s really good to hear your voice_.”

“_Yeah, well. I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be the end of the world soon, so._”

“_What?_” she balks. “_What do you mean?_”  
  


“_That’s…_” He sinks back against the stone. “_I guess that’s why I picked up. Because I’d rather not, you know, _end things _on the worst possible terms_.” 

“_Are you being metaphorical, or…?_” She raises her voice. “_Jesus, what, like Ragnarök or something?_”

“_Yeah. Literally, yes. Like Ragnarök. Or something_.”

“_And are you… _ involved… _ in that?_”

“_Yeah. I am. I’m supposed to be on the side that’s trying to stop it._”

“_Jesus… Are you serious?_”

“_Dead serious._”

“_That’s it, I’m coming to California._”

“_No, don’t—_”

“_I need to see you!_”

“_Don’t, I— I’ll come there!_” he says, panicking. The words are out of his mouth before he even realizes what he’s promising. 

“_Are you sure?_” She sounds hopeful. She really does want to see him. She really wants to make sure he’s okay.

His mouth is dry. “_Yeah. I mean, whatever. Why not?_”

“_Oh—_” She says something muffled, away from the receiver. “_Rose wants to speak with Nathan again_.”

“_Right_,” says Skwisgaar. “_Cool._”

“_So, then?_”

“_I’ll fly there._”

“_And we’ll—?_”

“_Yeah_,” he says, gazing out the window. From up here, the sea of worshippers looks like a swarm of colorful ants. He glimpses himself from the outside, a god crying on the phone with his human mother. Everything is accelerating. Nothing feels real. 

“_I love you,_” she says. 

She often says this to him in dreams. And he tries to say ‘I love you, too,’ but he never can, because he always wakes up first. 

“_Goodbye_.” He stands and climbs back up the stairs to the studio as Serveta puts Nathan’s mom back on the phone. 

“Hello?” she asks. “Is my son there?”

“Ja, holds on.” 

Inside, he passes the phone to Nathan, trying to conceal the residual effects of crying. 

“Hey, mom—” says Nathan, pantomiming ‘what happened?’ to Skwisgaar. 

“I’m goings to Floridas,” Skwisgaar says, a little shell shocked. He doesn’t sit so much as fall onto the sofa next to Toki. 

“What, seriously?” Nathan asks.

“Ja.”

“Dude, fuck it, I’ll go with you.”

Skwisgaar looks up. “Reallies?”

“Yeah, I mean.” He mutes the receiver against his shirt. His eyes flash with pain. “Honestly,” he mumbles, “after some of that. Future shit. I kinda wanna go see my parents anyway.” He puts the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, hey Mom. Sorry.” He winces. “Listen, we’re talking about flying— Yeah. No, I mean _ us _ fly down _ there_. Yeah.” He wanders out of the studio and into the hall, growing absorbed in travel arrangements. 

Skwisgaar throws himself into Toki’s arms. “Comes with us,” he says, hiding his tear stained face in Toki’s shirt. 

“I… don’t t’inks dat ams such a good idea, Skwisgaar,” Toki says, apologetic. “I’s not readies to be arounds normal peoples. I don’t wanna scares Nat’an’s family. And what if— What if somebody got horts? Nat’an might never forgives me.”

“I would fixes it,” says Skwisgaar, clinging helplessly. The phone call has left his insides screaming raw. Toki’s strong arms around him feel like they’re the only thing keeping his guts from spilling out. 

“But fixings deh horts don’t mean dhey never happened,” says Toki. “You knows dat. Nat’an ams our friend; I can’t risks hortings deh people he loves.” 

He’s right, Skwisgaar knows. Toki has been doing well at home, so far, but he has only just begun to discover his powers. They have no idea if he’d be able to control himself in a completely different environment, around a bunch of fragile mortals. And there’s a chance his presence alone would traumatize them, even if his control was perfect.

Skwisgaar presses his ear to Toki’s heart. “Okei,” he breathes, closing his eyes and sinking into the glowing, merging warmth. After a minute he asks, “Ams dis a terribles idea?”

“You mean, visitings your moms?”

“Ja.”

Toki hums thoughtfully. “Does you wants to sees her?” 

Skwisgaar scrunches his eyes until he sees black sparks. “Ja,” he finally whimpers. “I really does.”

“Den you shoulds.” Toki strokes his hair. “But does it for you, not for her. Does it because _ you _ wants to. And remembers:” He angles to whisper in Skwisgaar’s ear. “No matter what happens, somebody who loves you more den anyt’ing ams gonna be right here waitings for you when you gets back. I loves you so, so much.”

“I loves you, too,” Skwisgaar says, because it’s not a dream. He’s already wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... turns out we still haven't reached the end. Oof.
> 
> As always, leaving me comments is what smart, attractive, successful people do.


	13. Chapter 13

Hot air blasts them as they step off the Dethjet in Tampa. 

Skwisgaar used to hate flying; It always made him nauseous, and even most luxury jets aren’t designed to accommodate someone in the ninety-ninth percentile of human height. But he doesn’t get motion sick anymore, and his muscles never get stiff or cramped. As he debarks, squinting up at the tropical sky, he’s reminded of Toki’s prediction that they’ll soon grow wings.

Nathan grumbles at the glare and slips on a pair of wrap around sunglasses, gesturing for a klokateer to carry his bags. His movements are tender and cautious. Tilting his face to the sun, he places a tablet of Dramamine on his tongue and takes a sip from his stainless steel water bottle. 

During the flight, in his garbling way, Nathan mentioned how strange he’s been feeling these past few days. His body is already different, stronger, boiling emerald bones aglow beneath his silvery, shark-sleek flesh. Perhaps out of a desire to put his parents at ease now that his presence no longer scans as totally human, he has opted for the most inoffensive regular jackoff outfit in his wardrobe: khaki shorts, kelly green golf polo, a pair of slip-on pool sandals. Soon, the end will be upon them, and he will be called to go into the water; But for now, he’s just a regular guy paying his old folks a visit.

Heat lines warp the kerosene-soaked air. Following Nathan, Skwisgaar tips the dark shades on his forehead down to cover his eyes and whisks his sweaty hair up into a ponytail to keep it off the back of his neck. As they descend the jetway, he is briefly gripped by the absurd desire to hold hands. It was hard to do this, hard to make himself get on that plane, and now that they’re here, he’s just so grateful to have a friend with him. 

Nathan’s mom is waiting for them on the tarmac. 

“There you aaaaaare,” she warbles, throwing her arms open. But as the distance between them closes, she hesitates, dropping them again. 

Nathan approaches her, bowing his head, as the klokateers load their luggage into the trunk of her car. “Uh, hey,” he says. “Mom. Don’t like. Freak out or anything. Okay? I’ll explain.”

She touches his face. “Nathan?” she marvels. She glances over his shoulder at Skwisgaar and looks back to Nathan again, her eyes glistening with worry and wonder. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. 

Throat catching, she wraps her arms around him. “What’s happened?” she asks. “Oh, my baby boy! What’s happened to you?”

Nathan stiffens, clutching his water bottle. Impatient with standing on the black tarmac in the blaring sun. “Can we not? Do this here?” He clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

Why didn’t he mention any of this on the phone? What’s that echo in his voice? What the heck is going on with his skin? Won’t he take off those darn sunglasses? His mother peppers him with questions as they pile into the air-conditioned Wrangler.

As the Explosions argue and catch up on life, Skwisgaar sits in the back seat, watching the palm trees flip-book past them through the window. A sharp knot forms in his chest. 

Will Serveta touch his face like that? Does he want her to?

It seems like eons ago, but in fact it’s only been a little more than a year since he quit the band and went to live with her and Týr in Sweden. She’d seemed happier during those months than he’d ever seen her, spinning around the kitchen with a glass of Chardonnay dangling in her grip, as Skwisgaar baked them his grandma’s _ kladdkaka_, and rhapsodizing that she’d finally found ‘the one.’ And in spite of himself, Skwisgaar had liked Týr, had even wanted him to be ‘the one.’ For a while, it had really seemed like everything was going to be different.

He remembers standing over the counter sifting cocoa powder and cake flour into a glass mixing bowl as she tipsily wrapped her arms around him, wine in hand. Hyacinth and mandarin orange, the cling of her perfume. And my baby’s come home, she’d said. I thought you’d never come home. 

He remembers muttering something sarcastic. Scraping sticky black batter from the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula and refusing to face her, because he couldn’t trust his own expression. This wasn’t what he’d come for, this rapprochement with her; But during those months, he’d been happy, too.

The knot in his chest twists even tighter. He’s not sure he can actually do this, again. He’s not sure he can face her. Will things turn out differently this time, or is he too weak to save her, even as a god? He did promise Toki he was doing this for himself, and not for her, but it’s so hard to tell the difference. The one thing mitigating his claustrophobia is the knowledge that he can jump from the moving vehicle at any moment and expect to live. 

“Tell me the truth: Is my son being honest with me?”

Skwisgaar blinks at the back of Nathan’s mom’s head, realizing this question is directed at him. 

“Ja, euh,” he says. “Sorry; What ams you aksing?”

“Nathan, sweetie,” she clucks, “you look so pale.”

“Tell her I’m fine,” says Nathan, catching Skwisgaar’s eye in the rearview mirror. The silvery iridescence of his amphibious skin washes out in direct sunlight, but it’s a little more visible in the shade of the car. 

“Oh, ja.” Skwisgaar nods. “Nat’an ams, like, a mormaid-type man, so. He ams supposed to looks like dat.”

This doesn’t appear to reassure her. “He’s a what?”

The water bottle slides into a cup holder in the center console, finally empty. “I’m actually god of the Sea,” Nathan corrects. 

“Sweetie,” she pleads, “what in the world are you talking about?”

“I mean, it’s whatever.” He shrugs. “But yeah, honestly, I’m kinda gettin’ into it. I can’t wait to have gills so I can breathe underwater and stuff.”

The Wrangler veers onto the shoulder. “You what?!”

  
  
  
  
  
  


They arrive in New Port Richey a little after five o’clock, the tropical white sun dissolving like a lump of chlorine salt in a pool-blue sky. The stars are too close, and growing visible in the daytime, glittering like rhinestones among the cotton ball clouds. It looks like you could climb a ladder and pull them down. It looks like the beginning of the end. 

Nathan’s parents' house is on an acre of land along the Pithlachascotee River, recessed from the road behind a canopy of silver bismark palms at the end of a long gravel driveway. Skwisgaar wonders whether the Explosion household is always this spotless, or if it’s been tidied up in anticipation of Nathan’s arrival. All the windows on the first floor are open to create a cross-draft, but it still smells sharply of Lysol when they step inside. 

They deposit their bags by the front door and follow Nathan’s mom into the kitchen, where she immediately plies them with food and drink. Skwisgaar accepts a tall glass of iced tea with lemon, mumbling something about how nice their home is. He doesn’t have any strong opinions about it, but he vaguely wants Nathan’s parents to like him. He did promise to save them from the apocalypse, after all. Nathan’s mom gawks when he takes off his sunglasses, which is not a great sign.

“Come on,” says Nathan. “Mom. Be cool.” 

“It’s just that,” she says, craning to peer into Skwisgaar’s eyes. “Well, I’ve seen the news reports, and I still don’t understand. What _ are _you?” 

“Euuuuggghhhhhh… wells, you knows.” Skwisgaar smiles at her. “I consider myself a guitarist, primarily.”

She gives an incredulous little laugh. 

Before she can press him further, Nathan’s dad comes down the stairs, beginning the whole cycle of exclamations and worried questions all over again, and Skwisgaar slips away, leaving Nathan to his parents’ ministrations. 

He drifts through the living room and out onto the back porch, their voices receding behind him. Dread has dogged him the whole way here; But witnessing their reunion buoys him. That’s what he wants for himself. That’s what he came for. Cautious and silent, he pushes through the screen door, and steps out into the sun. There is something unfurling within him that’s dangerously similar to hope.

She never asked him where he got a 10,000 krona instrument. On the night he found the Explorer, by the time he’d gotten home, the men had been gone, and she’d been high on pills watching television as he slipped past her in the dark. At first, he’d tried to hide it from her under his bed, but once he started playing, it quickly became impossible to stop, and he was bringing his guitar to the dinner table.

The joy of learning to play had been wrenching, almost painful in its intensity. Without lessons or books, he taught himself entirely by ear, listening to tapes on his Walkman and trying to copy what he heard. Virtually overnight, the guitar had completely taken over his existence, and soon he’d been anxious to show her his progress. But for a long time, he was too shy to approach her about it. 

Finally, for his fifteenth birthday, he’d worked up the courage to ask her for an amplifier, promising her up and down it wouldn’t become a nuisance. She’d been vaguely approving of his guitar-playing up to that point, as it kept him quiet and occupied. And she knew a bit about music herself; Back when she was in pageants, the piano had been her ‘special talent.’ So he’d hoped that maybe she would understand.

It’s nice outside, a little cooler than it was when they landed. There’s a patio and a barbecue pit. The large yard behind the house slopes down towards the edge of the river, where Nathan’s dad’s fishing boat is docked in the shade of a flowering magnolia tree. 

Serveta is reclining in an adirondack chair near the edge of the water, her back to the house. She doesn’t seem to notice him coming. He stops to watch her for a minute in the middle of the grass. 

She is dressed for the tropics in white linen pants and a pink linen blouse, with pink nail varnish to match. A silver charm bracelet clinks and scrapes against the arm of the chair. The crown of her yellow head is just visible over the back. 

Did she hear the car pull in? She must know they’re here. 

The wind picks up, ruffling the water, and he can smell her perfume, the same scent she’s always worn. She drums impatient nails against the painted wood. Her presence feels flighty and anxious, like she’s on the run from something. She’s always felt that way. The melody of her is perhaps his oldest memory. 

And now there’s just no way she hasn’t sensed him. He is close enough to see the crescent of lipstick on the rim of her glass. 

Turn around, he thinks. Look at me.

And she does.

As if responding to his thought, she stands up out of the chair and turns to face him. Her lips part in surprise, and as he closes the distance between them, she presses a hand over her mouth. 

“Um. Hi,” he says. 

She lowers herself back into the chair, as if the sight of him is enough to knock her off her feet, and he sits down in the one opposite her, facing the house.

Realizing he’s still holding the glass of iced tea Nathan’s mom gave him, he sets it down on a level spot in the grass. “_So_.” He shrugs. “_Here I am_.”

For a minute, she doesn’t move or speak. Then her hand rises to hover beside his temple, and she whispers, “_Your eyes_…” 

He closes his mouth. This is it. He made it. He’s sitting here, right in front of her. He doesn’t know what comes next. He doesn’t know what he _ wants _ to happen next. But he’s held up his end, hasn’t he?

Her fingers skim the side of his face, barely touching, like she’s afraid he’ll turn out to be a mirage. Her voice is soft. She looks stunned. “_Is that really you, Little Dove?_”

“_Yeah_,” he says, leaning forward a few degrees. He won’t say no to being fussed over, like Nathan, just a little. The last thing he wants is for her to be afraid of him; But the awe is kind of nice. “_I know I look different_,” he says. “_But is it really that noticeable? It’s hard for me to tell exactly how I come across._”

“_Oh, honey_—” she sputters. “_You look like a special effect!_” She drops her hand and takes a fortifying sip of her martini.

“_Well, I’m real_,” he says. 

I’m scared, is what he wants to say. I didn’t ask for this; I didn’t ask to be this thing. I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me. And I need you— the one who made me this way —to promise me it’s gonna be alright. 

“_And all this_,” she waves her hand in a circle, “_about healing the sick and raising the dead?_”

“_Like I said on the phone, it’s all true._” He picks up his iced tea, taking a sip and resting the glass on his thigh. The condensation leaves a ring of moisture on the leg of his dark jeans. He looks her in the eyes. “_I’m a god._” 

She laughs, shaky fingers probing her pockets for a cigarette. “_I guess that makes me the Virgin Mary, huh?_” She nips the cigarette between her lips. “_Well_,” she snorts. “_You know what I mean._”

Watching her hunt for a fugitive lighter, he reaches out and pinches the paper end between his fingers, igniting it with a pop of sparks. She makes an abbreviated little sound of shock, halfway between a yell and a cough. 

“_Sorry_,” he says. “_I didn’t mean to startle you._” He kind of did. He’s kind of enjoying this.

“_Skwisgaar_,” she breathes, one hand holding the cigarette away from her face, and the other splayed over her heart. “_Oh, Skwisgaar._”

His ears are blushing. It’s exciting, finally getting to show her this. Her interested attention feels better than he expected, and enjoying it is simpler than he thought it would be. He can feel the dread peeling away. 

She blinks at him, smiling through her first drag. “_It all makes sense now_,” she says. “_You’ve always been special._”

He reaches into his glass, fishing out a slippery lemon seed and holding it between his forefinger and thumb. “_That’s nothing_,” he says. “_Watch this_:” Standing and backing a few paces towards the river, he takes a deep breath and raises his other hand to the sky. A bolt of white lightning erupts from the blue void, rilling down his arm and pooling like a liquid in his core. The seed levitates from his hand in a parhelion of light, splitting open and putting forth a curling green shoot. Pale roots fractal towards the ground and plunge themselves into the soil below as fingerlike cilia reach for the sun. Tender leaves uncurl, delicate branches bowing with the sudden weight of swelling fruits, and in less than sixty seconds, there’s a mature lemon tree standing in the middle of the yard. 

He flops back down in the adirondack chair, trying to cool his burning insides with a gulp of iced tea. Residual current licks over his skin as he fights to modulate his powers. He overshot the dosage; Turns out sprouting a seed requires considerably less energy than raising the dead, so the excess is still coursing through his system. Catching his breath, he waits for his body to relax and absorb what he didn’t manage to use. 

She studies the lemon tree before turning her attention back to him. “_How did this… happen to you?_” she asks.

He swallows a few chips of ice. “_I was sort of hoping maybe _ you _ could tell _me.” 

“_Oh?_” she frowns.

The sky is just beginning to darken. He puts the glass down again and looses his ponytail, slipping the elastic band around his wrist and shaking out his hair. The humidity makes it curl. 

“_Tell me about my father_,” he says. 

Her gaze drops into her lap. 

“_You lied to me; You knew something._”

Her expression sours, but she doesn’t look up. “_You just got here, and you’re already making accusations against me_,” she says. “_You always make me out to be the villain—_”

“_How did I happen?_” He cuts her off. “_Tell me._”

She takes a puff, eyeing him sideways. “_I don’t know_,” she says after a while. “_You were… unexpected. _Not _unwanted,_” she points at him, “_I _never_ said that. You put words in my mouth_.” The cigarette switches hands. Her anxious presence crackles like mic static against the surface of his awareness. “_I didn’t lie to you_,” she says. “_I told you I didn’t know who your father was, and I let you fill in the blanks however you wanted. I know what you think of me. But I didn’t bother to correct you. The truth is, the only man I was with during that period of time was Lukas._”

“_Lukas?!_” He sits up. 

“_I thought I was going to marry him_,” she says. “_He only started hitting me after I got pregnant. I didn’t know what he was capable of, before that._”

His voice comes out strange and compressed. “_You got back together with him, twice._”

“_Well_,” she sniffs, “_I don’t expect you to understand._”

“_Did you go back to him because… Because you thought he was my father?_”

She looks out at the water. “_No,_” she says. Her eyes flash with conviction. “_He believed he was your father, but I never did. He even tried to claim you, at one point. Threatened to, more like. But as impossible as it seemed, I just _ knew _ it couldn’t be him._” She smiles, vindicated, and a little vindictive. “_And I was right, wasn’t I?_”

Skwisgaar goes quiet, watching the glances of sunlight on her pink nails, the scum of her matching pink lipstick on the paper filter. He wants her to hold him, but he can’t ask her to; He needs her to offer it, without him having to ask. 

As though sensing this longing, she discards the butt in her empty, wet martini glass, and reaches out to stroke his hair, tucking the spillover behind his ear. “_You know I’m very proud of you_,” she says. “_I know I’ve said that_.”

“_Have you?_” he muses. “_Not lately._”

“_Well, you don’t talk to me!_” She drops her hand. “_Anyway, even though you hate_ _me, I’m very happy with the way you turned out._”

The shell of his ear prickles with the afterfeel of her touch. “_How did I turn out?_”

She presses her painted lips in thought. “_You’re nothing like Lukas_,” she says. “_Nothing like my father. You’re a good man. I don’t believe you’d ever hit a woman._” 

“_And that has something to do with you?_”

“_I’d like to think so_,” she shrugs. “_And keep in mind, I didn’t know I was bringing up a god. It’s lucky for the world you turned out decent._” She sits back in the chair, crossing her ankles and looking up at the too-close stars. 

“_Then again,_” she says, “_you were always a good kid. Quiet, well-behaved, sweet. I never had any problems with you. A little angel, really._” 

“_Was I?_” he asks. 

“_It ripped my heart out, when you ran away. I never saw it coming._” She shakes her head, blinking like she might cry. He doesn’t think she’s really going to cry, but she’s good at sounding like she might, for dramatic effect. “_One day,_ _my little angel baby just disappeared._” She uses a pink nail to scrape a phantom tear from the corner of her eye. “_And then, the next I heard of you, you were wearing black lipstick and mesh shirts, and snorting cocaine off tits, and sleeping on strangers’ sofas. It was like I’d lost my son to a cult._”

“_Oh?_” he asks, turning sarcastic. “_Is that what it was like?_”

“_Well, that’s what it seemed like to me_.”

“_And what do you suppose it was like for me?_” he asks, anger driving his pulse. 

She tilts her chin down to look at him. “_I don’t know. I wish you’d tell me. But you don’t talk to me. I had to wait for the apocalypse just to get you on the phone!_” 

He stands up, pacing the yard. “_You know why I left_,” he says. “_Stop pretending like you don’t_.” His skin is burning. His control slips, his body incandescing, and he feels a stab of sympathy for Toki; This would be even more stressful if, on top of everything else, his powers weren't so benign.

She sighs, plucking a wisp of dandelion from her blouse. “_When you were young_,” she begins, “_it happened to be at a very chaotic time in my life._”

“_That’s one way of putting it!_”

“_I know things weren’t ideal. But it was what it was._”

“_Oh good_,” he snaps. “_That really clears things up. Good to know that no one was responsible for how it was._” He storms back and forth near the edge of the water, hot sparks spraying around his closed fists.

“_I swear_,” she says, exasperated. “_You act like I beat you or something._”

“_No, that’s right; You just let Lukas do that._”

She grips the armrests, bolting upright. “_Let him? You think I _ let _ him?_”

“_You certainly didn’t stop him_.”

“_I was a battered woman_.” She raises her voice. “_How can you possibly blame me for that?_”

He stops in the shadow of the magnolia tree, burying his face in his hands. Distress clutches him. In what universe did he possibly think this wasn’t going to end in tears? Specially, his. 

“_I don’t— blame you_,” he grits out, “_for the way you were treated._” He drops his hands and pivots to face her. “_I blame you for the way you treated _ me_._” 

“_Always with the accusations,_” she says. “_You’ve never even told me what it was I did to warrant you cutting me out of your life._” Her voice cracks, but her eyes remain dry. “_My father beat me, and his father beat him, and so on,_” she waves her hand, “_all the way back to Viking times. And all I did with you was try my best. But somehow _ I’m _ the villain in all this?_” 

The glass he left on the ground shatters, making her flinch.

“_It isn’t _normal_ to treat your kid like they're your roommate_,” he says. Emotion fills his chest with churning lightning, and he can feel the static rising to the surface of his skin. “_Just because I was_,” he rolls his eyes, “‘_quiet.’ Doesn’t mean I was okay. The only reason it’s even possible for you to think that, is because you weren’t paying attention!_” The echo of wrath in his voice is frightening even to him, but he’s too upset to subdue it. 

She works her jaw. Real tears threaten. He can tell they’re real, because she’s working hard to conceal them. She toes the shards of glass under his chair. “_I don’t know what you want me to say_.”

“_You know what?_” he says. “_I don’t know what I want you to say either. I guess I thought there was something you _could_ say that would make everything better. But that was stupid of me._”

He turns away from her and goes to stand on the shore of the river. It’s cloudy and yellowish like miso soup, swirling with tempests of loam and mud. When the wind stills, the mud settles, and the surface of the river turns a reflective chocolate black. It’s so smooth, he can see the stars in it. He thrashes on his feet for a few seconds, holding bolts of lightning over his head like Zeus, like a murderer’s knife, and hurling them into the water again and again. He didn’t even know he could do that. It’s not as cathartic as it probably looks. The black water boils with current, frothing over with pale yellow mud, and he watches the mixture separate and settle again.

Unsatisfied, he sits back down, burying his face in his hands, the glass crunching under his boots. He can feel her eyes on him; She’s frightened, which is not at all what he wanted. He’s crying, reaching down to grip his ankles and folding himself in half so that his hair drags in the grass. 

All he wanted in the first place was for her to hold him, and for her to be the one to offer it. Is it too late for that, now that he’s frightened her? 

His head hurts from crying. He can’t live forever with this kind of pain. There has to be some way for him to begin to unsnare it. 

A tentative hand rests on his heaving shoulder. He sits up, wiping at his eyes, but the tears continue to roll down his cheeks and into his mouth. The hand combs his tangled hair away from his face, and he takes hold of it, gently pressing it into her lap and then letting it go. 

“_Something happened to me, when I was eleven years old_,” he says, “_Something I’ve never told you about_. _ Something that altered the course of my life, in ways I’m only just beginning to understand._” He swallows. “_I’m not gonna tell you what it was_,” he continues. “_Maybe someday. If we ever manage to get to a completely different place. But for now, I just need you to know that something happened to me, when I was little, and I wanted to go to my mom with it, and I felt like I couldn’t. And I’m not saying that because I hate you, or want you to feel bad. It’s just something I need you to know, so that I can. I don’t know. Start to learn how to be okay, I guess._” 

He lifts his chin, meeting her gaze again. Her eyes are glassy. She’s scared of him, and scared for him, too. She’s been scared from the moment she saw him, in this impossible, inhuman form. Glibness is her default approach to everything that scares her. 

“_The truth is, I don’t hate you_,” he says. “_I can’t trust you. And I can’t rely on you._” He takes a deep breath. “_But I still love you. And I came to see you, because— Because I’m scared._” He gestures down at his glowing body. “_I didn’t ask for any of this. I barely understand what’s happening to me. And regardless of everything else between us… I just wanted you to be my mom for a while._”

She touches his arm. Outwardly, she’s calm, though her music says she’s afraid he might smite her or something. “_That’s why I’m here, Little Dove._” She slides to the edge of her chair in order to pull him into a proper hug. 

The melody of her is so warm and familiar, but her embrace is overwhelming in ways he didn’t expect. Her DNA chimes with him. Though she fundamentally resembles any other mortal, his body recognizes that it came from her. She is the end of a great unbroken chain that links him with the first self-replicating ribocytes, the spear point of a single vast organism that stretches all the way back to abiogenesis. He was not a human child, but rather an instantiation of the primordial cosmic lifeforce within her, to which her body gave specific, human form. Through her, he can see the entire multi-billion year history of life on earth laid end to end; His first glimpse of the god’s eye view that will one day be his.

“_It was strange at first_,” she says, smoothing his hair, “_to see you this way. But I know it’s… right. I know it’s what you are. And what you’ve always been._” She kisses his forehead. “_I knew you were some sort of miracle._” 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, savoring the feel of her linen blouse against the underside of his jaw. This simple comfort is all he wanted; For his mother to finally see him like this, and to recognize him as her child, and to accept him into her arms. Her recognition proves to him that he is still himself. That the change he’s undergoing is endurable. The one who gave him life has seen and touched his new body, and deemed it whole and good.

In her arms, the truth reveals itself to him: He has no father, because there _ was _ no father; Not the friendly, clean-cut man he daydreamed would someday come to his rescue as a child. Not the bearded Viking god he was picturing a year ago, on his way back from Sweden. And to his surprise, this comes as an immense relief, because it means that no father, man or god, abandoned him. There is only his mother, who has failed him in countless ways, but who is nonetheless, still here. 

“_I missed you_,” he says. “_I liked staying with you last year. I liked Týr. I was determined _ not _ to like him but. Ahh, well_,” he laughs tearily. “_I couldn’t keep it up_.” 

“_You know_,” she says, finally releasing him, “_Týr and I got back together._”

“_Seriously?_” he asks. The tears finally cease. At this, he can only scoff. “_You’re kidding_.”

_“Strictly speaking, we were never officially divorced_,” she says primly. “_But we’re no longer separated._”

He shakes his head, incredulous. “_Men are really stupid, aren’t we?_”

She shrugs, as if to say, ‘yeah, pretty much.’ 

“_Well_,” he says, “_congratulations, I guess_.”

“_I’m selling the house, and we’re going to travel the world together_.” She makes a grand, sweeping gesture, her pink nails glinting in the sun. “_We’re going to do it in every national capital._”

His features scrunch. “_Wow, that was… almost sweet for a second_.” 

He doesn’t mention that the looming apocalypse is likely to put a damper on their travel plans. 

Serveta grins. “_That reminds me: Tell me about this lover of yours_.” She waves her wrist, charm bracelet tinkling chattily. 

“_Toki’s not,_” Skwisgaar cringes, “_my ‘lover.’ He’s my—_”

“_Toki?_” Her eyes widen. “_You mean _ Toki _ Toki? The rhythm guitarist?_” 

“_Yeah_.”

“_He’s like you? Jesus, what are the chances?_”

“_He’s not exactly like me, he’s—_” He pauses, gathering what facts he has at his disposal. “_Dethklok is prophesied to guide humanity through the apocalypse. We all have, you know. Powers, I guess. But Toki’s are the opposite of mine. I’m… Life. And he’s Death._”

“_You’re in love—?_” She blinks. “_With Death?_”

“_Yes_.” He looks at his lap. Luckily, his hair conceals his blushing ears. “_We… fit together_,” he says softly. “_He’s… what I need._”

“_Well, in that case_,” she says, “_I’d like to meet him_.” 

“_You _ have _ met_ _him_."

“_I’ve barely said two words to him!_” she says, indignant. “_What? Don’t look at me like that. I just want to be properly introduced to my son’s boyfriend; It’s not like I asked you how big his dick is._”

“_He’s not my ‘boyfriend_,’” Skwisgaar sighs, frustrated. “_He’s the god of Death. He’s my_—” He opens and closes his hands, struggling to convey what Toki is to him. “_My other half. We’re like, a set of pillars that holds up the world. It’s not like a… human relationship._”

“_Is that a good thing?_” she asks. She looks a little concerned. 

He stills, considering this. “_It’s just… natural_,” he decides. He tugs at the elastic, snapping it against his wrist. “_We’re… intended for each other._” He’s used to thinking of himself as commitment-averse, but somehow he’s found himself entering into what is theoretically an eternal commitment with nothing short of shuddering relief. Though his mind still shrinks from the thought of eternity, the promise of Toki’s endless companionship is enough to keep his head above the waterline of despair. 

She gives a soft ‘hnng,’ staring at a fading red mark the elastic cut into his wrist. “_I’m glad it’s someone who… Well, I know your music is very important to you_,” she says. “_I’m glad it’s someone you can… share that with_.”

“_Yeah_.” He sags, sinuses throbbing with fresh tears. “_Yeah._”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Everyone convenes in the yard around eight o’clock, their moms drinking and chatting on the patio while Nathan’s dad fires up the grill. They’re surprised, but not unhappy about the lemon tree. A sinking magenta sun fills the sky, trimmed with orange sherbet clouds and pink sprinkle stars.

Nathan joins Skwisgaar at the edge of the river, enjoying a companionable silence. He pops the tab on a can of beer, a head of foam gushing over his fist, and offers one to Skwisgaar from the cooler at his feet.

Skwisgaar accepts the can and holds the cold aluminum against the side of his face. The smell of burning charcoal and hickory chips is making him salivate. He took a preemptive surplus of liquid calories on the plane, but he’s already ravenous again. Food may be unnecessary for survival, but hunger makes the fickle beast that is his body that much harder to control. 

Does Nathan feel this warm, and restless, and hungry? Is his human mind flooded with the urges and appetites of a god? 

Skwisgaar pops his can and takes a serenity-seeking sip.

“Uh,” Nathan grunts. “So.”

“Ja,” says Skwisgaar, in response to the unstated question. “It wents okay.”

Nathan fathoms the bottom of his beer. “I tried to explain things to my parents,” he says.

Skwisgaar tosses him a look. “Ja?”

“But I don’t think they got it. Maybe I wasn’t. Very clear.” Nathan sighs. His presence purls with frustration. 

Skwisgaar skims his knuckles against the back of Nathan’s upper arm, sending him a little pulse of comfort.

“It’s soon,” Nathan says. “Sooner than I thought.” His eyes are haunted. He pounds his beer and crushes the empty can in his fist. “We can’t do anything right,” he groans. “How are we gonna save the world?”

These final days are precious few. There is one last album, one last message to humanity, which they must release before the end. But beyond that, there is little they can do to prepare themselves for it. When it comes, they will know it is upon them, and they will know by instinct what to do. 

Skwisgaar squeezes his arm. He is slippery and cool to the touch; So different from Toki, whose flesh is like sun-warmed stone. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Nathan agrees, though Skwisgaar hasn’t actually said anything. 

Still in his pool sandals, he climbs down the shelf of earth that separates the river from the yard and wades into the water. The Pithlachascotee feeds into the Gulf of Mexico; He could swim from here to the ocean. 

“I’m serious about the gills,” he says over his shoulder. “I don’t know how I feel about the fish tail. But I’m all-in on the gills.”

Skwisgaar ‘hmms’ in amusement. “If you don’t wants a fishes tail, can’t you just keeps yous legs?”

Nathan shrugs. “Only on land. I don’t think I get to switch between them at will. I think it’ll be more like, automatic.” He splashes. “But it’s whatever. It’s fine.”

Skwisgaar peels off his boots and socks and cuffs his jeans before joining him in the river. The water is cool, but not freezing. Tiny black fish kiss at their legs. 

Nathan smiles. “Seriously though,” he says, “I don’t hate it. It’s weird, but.” His hands dangle in the water and the fish swarm to kiss them, mouthing tiny tickling bubbles. “I actually feel pretty great. Being god of the Sea would be really cool if things weren’t all about to go to hell.”

“I t’ink you makes a great mormaid,” Skwisgaar teases, clapping him on the shoulder. “I can already sees you leadings deh sailors to dheir doom wiffs dat beautifuls singing voice.” 

Nathan huffs, pretending to be annoyed. “But you an’ Toki get to have wings? Fuck you two. That’s bullshit.” 

“Ja, it ams pretty bullshit,” says Skwisgaar. “Wings ams definitely deh coolest. Deh rest of you guyz really gets ripped off. But you knows: Life amn’ts fair.” He grins around a second sip of beer. 

Nathan frowns down into the coffee-colored water. His mood is hard to read. Flashes of pain peek through like flecks of gold in a sifting pan of silt. Skwisgaar wants to hug him, but he’s not very comfortable doing it in the sight of Nathan’s parents. He settles for bumping his leg under the water. 

“I keep going back and forth,” Nathan says. “Like one second I’m fine, and then the next second I’m freaking out. There are just. So many possible futures. So many ways we could all be totally boned.”

“But dere ams some good futures too, rights?”

“Yeah. That’s why, whenever I start to see one of those, I feel better. But they keep switching, and it’s driving me fucking crazy. I just wanna, like. Hold one of the good ones in my head.” He slips off his pool shoes, kneading his toes in the cool mud at the bottom of the river. Skwisgaar can feel his anxiety, and his attempts at self-soothing. “I hate to say it,” he says. “But it’s still fucken Toki. He’s the wildcard in all this. If he goes bad… He goes world-fucking, humanity-obliterating, no-coming-back-from-it bad.”

“But I won’t lets dat happen,” Skwisgaar says, automatically.

“That’s the thing, though: You don’t control him. He has to choose to be good. And he has to keep choosing it, over and over again. Even when it’s hard for him.”

Panic vacuums his chest. “Well what makes him chooses good in deh good futures, den?” he demands. “How does I makes sure dat happens?” 

“I don’t know,” says Nathan. He cradles his skull. “I don’t know _ why _ these things happen, or don’t happen. I just see… flashes of them.” His profile furrows into a glower. “I need to go into the water,” he says. “I need to talk to the whales. Maybe then I could tell you.” 

Toki is happy now. He’s doing so well. Skwisgaar chews his lip. It’s just a matter of keeping him that way. Once they get back to Mordhaus, Skwisgaar vows, he’s never letting the turbulent god of Death out of his sight again. They will be joined as one; They will ensure balance and harmony. There’s no way Toki will be able to resist it. 

Nathan turns back towards the house. The ribs are done, and his dad is calling them in for dinner. He grabs another beer from the cooler and climbs back up onto the grass. 

Nathan’s mom is laughing hysterically at something Serveta just told her as they all tuck in around the table, grabbing rolls and waiting for Nathan’s dad to set a loaded paper plate in front of each of them. 

“That’s outrageous!” she hollers. “I can’t believe it!”

“It ams true,” Serveta smirks, daintily prodding her potato salad with a plastic fork while Rose unashamedly attacks a pork rib with her bare hands. Nathan and his mother, Skiwsgaar notes with some amusement, eat exactly the same way. 

“Dis ams greats,” Skwisgaar says to Nathan’s dad, nibbling on a rib. He’s ravenously hungry, as always, but he can’t stand to make a mess in front of people. In fact, he eats a lot like his own weight-conscious, former-pageant queen mother, now that he’s ready to be totally honest about it. 

“Hang on.” Nathan points at him, fingers dripping with redbrown sauce. “Cilantro.” 

Skwisgaar sputters, “_Now _ you tells me?!” dropping the bone like it just bit him.

“Aw, come on,” Nathan laughs, chewing. “You’re invincible, or whatever. There’s no way you’re still allergic, right?”

“I don’t knows!” Skwisgaar shouts, frantically wiping his hands on a ream of paper towels from the middle of the table. “But dis ams a hell of a way to finds out!” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


At the end of the night, they retire to their separate areas of the house. Serveta has the guest room on the third floor, with Nathan and his parents’ bedrooms being on the second. Skwisgaar agrees to take the pull out sofa in the living room, despite Nathan’s mom’s concern that it will be too short for him. He can sleep, deeply and comfortably, just about anywhere. It’s one of his favorite aspects of the transformation. 

Feet dangling off the end of the sofa bed, he curls his legs towards his chest to make them fit. A perfectly suitable sleeping position. He yawns, feeling the druglike wave of healing rest wash over him. Through the window, if he opened his eyes, he’d be able see the massive, looming stars. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


He dreams of a cool blue desert. 

He is winged again, and naked this time. The wind caresses his skin as the sand slips sugarfine between his scrunching toes. He opens his hands and extends his glorious plumage, embracing the sparkling night sky, his hair wafting around him like pale fire. 

His soul is filled with an intoxicating sense of freedom and power. He is life-giver, creator, and lover. The world is his canvas. Everything he touches with his golden hands is made whole and good. 

A figure appears on the violet horizon, advancing towards him and revealing a shimmering white wingspan almost as long as his own. She’s a tall, muscular woman, with dark brown skin and close cropped hair. Her dark eyes glitter like diamonds, and as She approaches him, he lowers his head in reflexive deference. She is so regal and so beautiful, that it almost hurts to look at Her. 

He knows exactly who She is: She is Life— or rather the one who carried the burden of Life before him. Overcome, he kneels in the sand at Her feet, and begs for Her to stay with him.

But She is already gone, having dissolved Herself, and scattered Herself to all the corners of the world. She has been reabsorbed into Her own creation; A true and fitting form of death. She has left this message behind for him. Think of this, She tells him, as a recording. She bids him not to cry for Her. 

What went wrong? he asks Her. How can he put things right?

She smooths his hair away from his face. Like a mother would do. Like his own mother did.

Her human name was Najat. She was born to a sheep herding people, whose flocks roamed the great valley between the Tigris and the Euphrates. This was the dawn of the age of man, when the first walled cities sprang from the ancient Earth.

He, the Dark One, was once called Selac. He wandered into the river valley alone and afraid, after having been cast out by His own people, the pale and bearded barbarians of the North. The pall of Death surrounded Him, and they had banished Him to the unknown reaches, in a desperate effort to be rid of His curse. 

It was She, Najat, who took Him in and nursed Him back to health. And in this way, they discovered themselves in each other’s arms, and their love transformed them into winged, deathless gods. 

For millennia, they wandered the Earth together, naked and laughing, their bodies impervious to the elements, their hearts drunk on pleasure and boundless love. They ate their fill of honey, rested in beds of blood red poppies, bathed themselves in glassy rivers, sunned themselves on flat rocks, darted and chased through tangled forests, rested, and wrestled, and played in fields of golden grain, tongues sweet with wine and figs and apricots, and skimmed the surface of the emerald sea. She was, by Her nature, an artist, driven by an unquenchable desire to create, and He was Her loyal companion and steadfast protector, the one who understood and admired Her creation as no one else could. 

Before them, the great gods of the Sea had held up the world, and the cosmic turtle had carried life on Earth on its back through many previous cycles. But with the dawning of the age of man, Life and Death took human forms for the first time. These young, exuberant gods would carry the world through a new and promising cycle, and the cosmic turtle, on whose shell the continents once shifted, would finally have occasion to rest.

Selac and Najat were worshiped by humans throughout the known world, inspiring statues and images after every nation and color. She was Ishtar, Aphrodite, Hathor; He was Nergal, Hades, Osiris. They were the subjects of countless myths and legends, appearing to mortals in endless guises, and filling the Earth with their children. 

In Her lovestruck youth, She willfully ignored the signs— But in retrospect, a part of Him had always been jealous and controlling. Over time, the darkness in Him curdled, and when He couldn’t get His way with Her, He began to devour Her children and destroy Her creations. Until one day, He hurt Her: He hurt Her in a way that She could never forgive. 

She spent centuries fleeing His wrath, attempting to shield mankind from His cruelty and madness. But it was never enough; The kingdoms of man languished in ignorance and darkness. And the goddess Najat suffered unspeakable tortures at the hands of Her once beloved Selac. The Earth was vast, but no matter where She hid Herself, He would always eventually find Her. If He could not control Her and possess Her completely, He would punish Her forever.

Wishing to die, She begged Life to release Her. But Life had created Her as its vessel. Her body was not Her own, to dispose of as She pleased, but a lever of creation. 

The age of man was a disaster, and though She loved mankind, She knew their cause would be lost under the reign of Selac. A cleansing fire would purge them, discarding them as a failed experiment, and a new life cycle would begin. Maybe Life would return in the form of a dolphin. Maybe the birds and rabbits would finally get their due. Najat could only wait and pray; Until, in the year most humans know as 1971, Life chose a new incarnation, releasing Her from Her earthly duties and finally allowing Her to die.

Skwisgaar tries to hold onto Her, but She is just an echo. A recording. Her hand feels real against his cheek, but when he tries to return Her touch, his fingers pass right through Her. The real Najat has been gone from almost the moment he was born. He weeps with the knowledge that he will never have a chance to know Her.

She tells him how overjoyed She was to discover that he was human. She came to look at him the day he was born, sleeping on his mother’s chest, and upon seeing him, She was able to die happy. Mankind has been given a second chance with him. The Earth will be purged in a cleansing fire, but a remnant will survive, to begin the age of man anew. 

This time, the cycle is more complex; There are five of them, three new gods to set them on the path of balance and harmony. The pattern is adapting, in light of its previous failure. All five will be needed to shepherd mankind through the coming tribulations. 

But when the dust has settled, it will again be Life and Death who are bound for the duration of the cycle, unable to leave their posts until their duty has been fulfilled. Her own sentence was cut short by failure, She tells him; But his promises to be much longer. She smooths his hair, consoling him that no matter how long he is bound to this Earth, it will not be forever. Someday, there will come an end— Or at least, a choice.

Climbing up from his knees, he thanks Her. His own Dark One will not betray him, he tells Her. He is not afraid. He is ready to do what must be done. 

Her crackling fingers skim his cheekbone. Beware of Selac, She warns him. He is insane with jealousy, and He will stop at nothing to drive them apart and destroy their happiness. She nods once, telling him: Courage. And in a hail of glittering sand, She is gone forever.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Skwisgaar wakes up to the sound and smell of coffee brewing. Disentangling himself from the sheets, he hops off the sofa bed, instantly alert and full of energy, and skates in his socked feet over to the kitchen to find Serveta leaning against the white formica counter. 

“_Are you the first one up?_” he asks her.

And with plenty of time to shower and apply her makeup it seems. She nods. 

He walks over to the counter and grabs himself a clean mug from the dish drainer. “_You never used to be a morning person_,” he ventures.

She shrugs. As the last drips fall into the glass carafe, she pours herself a cup of coffee. “_I haven’t been sleeping well_,” she says. “_I wake up before dawn, and then I can’t seem to get settled again._” She blows on her drink before taking a sip. “_But I think that’s just part of getting old_.”

Skwisgaar pours himself some coffee, too. It’s not very good, by European standards, but they’re both willing to make due. He takes a couple of sips before setting his cup down on the counter. 

“_Mom_,” he says suddenly. “_I need you to do something for me_.”

She blinks at him. She really does look tired. And kind of lost. “_What’s that sweetie?_” she asks blearily. 

He grabs a notepad and pen by the phone, and starts writing things down. “_Nathan’s right_,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “_We don’t have much time._”

Her presence prickles, hairs standing on end like a cat’s. “_You mean—?_” Fear shakes the sleep from her limbs.

“_I need you to go back to Sweden_,” he says, scribbling furiously. His handwriting is spindly and close, but he knows she can read it. Adrenalin makes him talk faster. “_Bring Nathan’s parents with you; Go get Týr; And then follow these instructions exactly_.” He tears off the paper and presses it into her trembling hand. “_I’ll wire you some money_;” he says. “_I’ll send a squadron of klokateers to protect you; And I’ll come and get you as soon as I can. But I need you to follow these instructions. Can you do that for me?_” 

Her eyes scan the paper. “_How soon?_” she asks. “_How soon will these things happen?_”

“_It could be any day now_.”

Dazed, she lowers her cup into the kitchen sink. Her throat flutters, and for a second he’s afraid she might faint. “_Okay_,” she says, going numb.

“_I promised Nathan I would save his parents_,” he tells her. “_And I’ll save you and_ _Týr; I’ll come back for you._” 

Her face crumples. “_Skwisgaar—_” 

He clutches her against him, lifting her fatigue, healing her insomnia, filling her with health and strength. Where she is going, she will need all the strength he can give her. “_The future of humanity could depend on this_,” he says. “_Will you do this for me?_” 

She nods against his chest. “_My baby_,” she sighs, as his power courses through her. She falls calm and still in his healing embrace. “_I’ll do it; I promise_.” 

The scent of her hair fills his memory. He takes the hand that’s loosely gripping the paper and brings it to his lips. “_Look at me_,” he says, kissing her knuckles. “_Mom, look at me_.”

Her eyes snap to his face, and he shakes the hand holding the paper. “_I am _ trusting _ you with this_.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They spend most of the flight back to California in silence. Nathan is a man of few, precisely chosen words, and there just isn’t much more to be said. Somewhere over Arkansas, he leans his head on Skwisgaar’s shoulder and falls asleep. They have always understood each other’s natural quietness; There is no one Skwisgaar would sooner turn to for leadership, in these terrifying times.

Back at Mordhaus, he drops his bag on the floor of his bedroom, and stretches his arms above his head. There was no one in the rec room when they got here, but that’s no surprise. It’s already getting pretty late. Their bandmates are probably all in bed. 

The lawn outside of Skwisgaar’s window resembles nothing so much as the aftermath of a music festival. The crowds have gone— or more likely, they’ve been forced to go —leaving the grounds of Mordhaus strewn with their colorful litter. There’s not even much point in having the klokateers clean it up, he figures. Soon, the whole world will look like that.

Arms encircle him from behind in the darkness, pulling him down into his bed. His clothes are torn away like tissue paper as he is drawn into Death’s unearthly gravity, and pressed into the mattress by Toki’s heavy, naked form. Before he even knows what’s happening, a warm mouth is nipping his earlobe, the cords of his neck. “Sorry,” Toki stammers, between kissing and biting. “Sorry. About yous clothes. Can’t helps myself.”

Skwisgaar groans in satisfaction as he sinks into delicious full contact, letting their velvet nakedness dissolve all pain, and fear, and doubt. Finding his voice again, he laughs at Toki’s artless, slurping enthusiasm. “I’s only been gone for deh weekend,” he admonishes. 

“It felts like forevers,” Toki whines. 

They relax, recalibrating their harmony after a brief period of separation. Skwisgaar’s toes curl, enveloped in total love, total adoration, total protection. Bond with me, Toki’s body commands him, and Skwisgaar is helpless to refuse. More, closer. Bond with me. He can feel his thoughts slurring together as Toki’s palms press his naked back, supporting him as he falls totally boneless in an abyss of sensation. They breathe into each other’s mouths, legs intertwining beneath the covers, and Toki’s dark presence purrs and curls with possessive pleasure. You came back, Skwisgaar can feel him thinking. My love, my love. You came back to me. 

“How did it go?” Toki asks him.

Skwisgaar sighs, barely able to speak. “Goods,” he whispers. “Better den I… ezpeckted.” The world of mortals has left him wounded, warping his heart and crippling his capacity for intimacy; But maybe, he thinks, it was never for him in the first place. Maybe _ this _is what he’s always needed. The antidote to all his troubles. A partner whose feelings he can always sense, whose intentions are always transparent to him. Absolute security; Absolute trust; A love that can only exist between gods. Toki’s body is his fortress against the dangers of the world. 

“I yelleds at her some,” he says. “But it wasn’t a whole big terribles fight, likes I was afraid of. I gots to say some t’ings I… Really been needings to says for a long times. I doubts if she really heards me, but. For once, I’s oukay withs dat. It ams ups to her if she wants to really hears it. I puts deh ball in her courts dis time. And dat feels good.” 

“I’m glads,” says Toki. “I’m glads you gots to see your moms.” For once, there is no tinge of bitterness, and his dark heart beats pure. He’s just happy that the one he loves is happy. He doesn’t hold it against Skwisgaar that he doesn’t get to have the same sort of reunion. He has seen where that kind of thinking could lead him; He has witnessed the lonely fate of Selac, and he is determined, with every fiber of his being, to avoid it. 

Skwisgaar hums in gratitude. The tip of his nose draws ‘z’s on Toki’s cheek. “Did I wakes you up?” he asks. His brow furrows. “Does you even sleeps?” 

“Not reallies,” Toki chirps. “I just sort of. Closes my eyes and goes all stills.”

Skwisgaar withdraws, scanning his face. Pure reflex sends the healing energy surging from his palms into Toki’s back. “You don’t dreams?” he asks.

“No.” Toki smiles. “No more nightsmares.”

Not being able to sleep sounds miserable, but Toki doesn’t look like he thinks so. “Well, what’s you been doings all nights, den?” Skwisgaar asks. “Just watchings _ me _ sleeps? Don’t you gets boreds?” 

Toki looks thoughtful. “No,” he says. “I don’t sleeps likesa human, ekzactlies, but I does rest. You could calls it a kind of sleeps. I goes inzto a sorta trance. But don’t worries—” he adds quickly. “It amn’t likes when I goes all, you knows…”

“Catatonics?” Skwisgaar supplies. 

“Ja,” Toki nods. “It amn’t likes dat. It ams real peacefuls.” 

He nestles his head under Skwisgaar’s chin, ear to his breastbone. “I could just lies here and listens to yous heartbeat forevers,” he sighs, punctuating this with an affectionate squeeze that renders Skwisgaar temporarily mute. “Ams dat… okei wiffs you? Deh way we’s been getting? So close, we almost… blurs togedder? Do you wants dat as much as I does?” he asks guiltily. 

“Of course.” Skwisgaar smiles, bumping their noses.

“Ams you sures? Has you really thoughts about what we’s potentially committings ourselves to, here? Dis amn’t gonna bes likesa normal relationz’hips.”

He snorts. “Since when has you ever knowns me to be lookink for one of doze?” 

“Well—” Toki trembles with want. “If you’s sures, I’m sures.”

Skwisgaar kisses him, curling them around each other again and sinking them beneath the covers. “I’m sures,” he says. “Froms now on, you never leaves my side. You hears me? You amn’t goin’ nowheres.” 

Toki tries to voice his agreement, but speech is suddenly off the table. The bonding feeling subsumes them, ensuring that neither of them will be going anywhere, at least for the rest of the night. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Skwisgaar waits a few minutes before opening his eyes to listen to the tinkling strings of Toki’s unplugged guitar. The bed is warm. He stretches, blinking the crust of sleep from his lashes. It’s early. Buttery light spreads over the horizon of Mordland and touches his window, falling in vertical yellow stripes across the stone floor. 

“Goods mornings,” Toki smiles down at him. Barely restrained enthusiasm shines through his expression, like he’s been waiting to glom all over Skwisgaar for hours, but didn’t want to disturb his sleep. 

Skwisgaar turns over and lays his head on Toki’s thigh, peering up the neck of the Flying V at Toki’s racing fingers. “Whats you playings?” he yawns.

“Nothing,” says Toki. It’s a simple melody line: The sound of the trees and the wolves outside. 

Skwisgaar remembers being a little boy, and then suddenly finding himself in the body of a man. At first, he was scared, because he was scared of men. Men had hurt him. He was ashamed of his size, and his strength, and his sex drive, because he didn’t want to be like them. But he grew into it. And he realized men didn’t have to be that way. 

Now, he has the heart and mind of a man, inside the body of god. He loves Toki like a man, because it’s all he knows. But he’ll grow into it. And someday, he’ll love Toki like a god. Like the sky loves the ocean. Someday, he’ll have the heart and mind of a god, and eternity won’t scare him.

He sits up, parting his tangled hair, and gives Toki a wide, lazy smile. Rocking forward, he touches their foreheads together, letting his brain slip into composition mode, building out depth and complexity as he works the melody over in his mind. And Toki’s fingers fly to copy him, instantly and unthinkingly translating the chords in Skwisgaar’s brain into chords on the shivering steel tendons of his unplugged guitar. 

The melody changes, and Toki’s swift fingers follow, pouring out a song of wolves, and trees, and bees, and amoebas. Of the tangled gore of boreal forests, and the bristling swarms of black mussels on sea-blasted cliffs, and the bright faces of dandelions peeking through fissures in pavements, and the red worms in black humus, and the minnows in tidepools, and the sun-bleached bones of felled elephants, and the rotting hulls of fallen trees, and the dizzy perfume of fermenting sugars, and the glide of sinew against the levers of bone, and the throes of orgasm, and the syrupy coating of blood and amniotic fluid that accompanies birth. Skwisgaar composes these verses and Toki plays them, their souls intertwining in rapturous, irresistible union. And the hidden mechanisms of the world reveal themselves to the minds of these young gods: form and void, sound and silence, the mysteries of generation and decay.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next day, Dethklok makes a bonfire and sits around the pit on picnic benches, eating s’mores and waiting for the end of the world. 

“Wait a minute,” Murderface is asking Toki. “If you can’t touch anybody without killing them, doesch that mean you can’t even get laid?”

Pickles skewers three marshmallows, turning them over the fire for a nice, even roast. “When ya put it like dhat,” he says, “dhat’s fucken brutal.” He likes them golden brown, in contrast with Nathan, who shoves them directly into the flames until they blacken, and slips off the shell of carbon to enjoy the molten core. Murderface, for his part, eats them raw, and without the imprimatur of graham crackers. 

“It’s okei.” Toki shrugs, ignoring the marshmallows entirely in favor of chocolate. “I just does it wid Skwisgaar.” 

“Heywow, Toki.” Skwisgaar kicks him under the table. “Way to be, you know. Tactfuls. Dildo.” 

“Sorries.”

Murderface rockets out of his seat, the bag of marshmallows tumbling out of his lap into the dirt. “You _ what?_” he demands. 

“I just does it wid Skwisgaar.”

“But, that’sch gay!”

Pickles shakes his head, carefully tending his roast. “Dood, what’s dah poor lil’ guy s’posed tah do? Give ‘em a break: He can’t bang chicks. Dhat ain’t gay, dhat’s prison rules.” 

“I can’t even begin to believe thisch.” Murderface crosses his arms. “Scho, what? Dethklok isch gay now? And everyone’sch juscht okay with it?” 

Pickles and Nathan share a look. 

“To be honest, I don’t really give a fuck.”

“An’, ya know, we gaht all dis other stuff goin’ ahn, so…” 

Toki walks around the table towards the bonfire and sits down next to Skwisgaar, his catlike eyes flashing with undiguised glee. Now that everyone knows they’re sleeping together, there’s really no reason why they shouldn’t sit next to each other. And maybe cuddle a little? Skwisgaar huffs in annoyance, but does nothing to stop him.

“Okay,” says Nathan, loading up his stick again and plunging it into the snapping fire. “We’re all bein’ honest here, right? Cards on the table: I would fuck Skwisgaar.” 

“What?!” Murderface cries. 

“In _ that _ situation! Think about it:” Nathan puts a finger to his temple. “You _ can’t bang chicks_. Skwisgaar’s like… the next best thing, right?”

“Pffft—!”

“Like. A really angular, six-and-a-half foot chick. Okay, so. Not really. But he’s _ beautiful_, is what I’m saying.” 

“That _ isch _ gay!” 

“Oh, so now it’s gay to have eyes?” 

“Actuallies,” Skwisgaar interjects, “dis amn’t exactlies how I was wantings to tells everyone but, ehhhhhhhhh…” He shrinks from the spotlight, realizing everyone has turned to look at him. “_Toki-you-wanna-helps-me-outs-heres?_”

Toki pulls him into a crushing side hug. “We’s in loves!” he gushes. “We’s in loves and we’s gonna be togethers forever!”

Murderface throws up his hands. “Scheriouschly?” His cheeks redden as he scans his bandmates’ firelit faces. “Great, now _ I _ look like the asschole!” 

“We forgives you,” Toki simpers. 

“Schrew you guysch,” Murderface says to Nathan and Pickles, stooping to pick up the bag of marshmallows. “Trying to make _ me _ look intolerant. Well guessch what, you chuckleheadsch? I’m gonna be the _ moscht _ schupportive,” he grumbles, pulling a marshmallow out of the bag. “I’m schuch a good fucking friend—” A ball of fire engulfs his hand, charring the wad of air-pumped sugar and corn starch exactly the way Nathan likes them. “What the fuck?!” Murderface screams. He shakes his hand, but the molton marshmallow sticks to his fingers like napalm. “Did you guysch schee that?!” He snaps his fingers. “How did I—? How did I _ do _that? Holy schit!” On the third or forth snap, he produces a jet of orange flame. “Aw, fuck yeah!” he crows. “Not the one gettin’ schtuck with lame powersch! Thisch rulesch!” 

But when he looks up from celebrating, no one is paying attention to him. Their shadows rapidly lengthen, falling across the picnic area in shifting, slanted stripes. They are all staring past him, open-mouthed, at the sky. “You guysch?” Murderface says softly. He turns, enveloped in the blinding red light, burnt sugar dripping from his trembling hands. All five of them stand riveted, bones aching with the heat of the dying dwarf star that swallows the horizon, devouring the moon and sun. Skwisgaar shudders, feeling Toki’s hand close around his, his scapula quivering with the threat of latent wings. 

The Metalocalypse has begun. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel?


End file.
